


taking tips and getting stoned

by alison



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Reminiscing, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alison/pseuds/alison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis drives a taxi. He hasn't seen Harry in eight years when they have a chance meeting. </p><p>A lot has changed in that time. But not everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	taking tips and getting stoned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArielFabulous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArielFabulous/gifts).



> Based on the songs "Taxi" and "Sequel" by Harry Chapin.
> 
> I deviated slightly from the plot of the songs in a few ways, most notably in their dream careers. I changed them to fit Harry and Louis a bit better in my opinion. I also changed the one line I specifically quoted from the song, "we learned about love in the back of a Dodge, the lesson hadn't gone too far" because apparently Dodge cars are not at all common in England, so it's changed to "Ford" in the fic.
> 
> The Harry/OMC relationship is strictly off-screen, just referenced. The Louis/OMC relationship is on-screen, but fairly brief. 
> 
> Thank you to my lovely betas/britpickers!

Louis sighs as he turns down another road, the rain making the shitty tires of the taxi skid against the pavement a bit. His eyes scan the few people still out, looking for his one last fare of the evening. Even though he knows a few extra quid won't make much of a difference, he does this. He sets goals for himself. Just three more, two more, only one more, then he can go home and climb into bed with half a joint and his ipod.

He slows down when he sees a man up ahead coming out of one of the swankier clubs in town, one of those types you need to know someone to get into. The patrons of those clubs wouldn't dare take the bus or the tube so more often than not Louis can pick someone up.

Luck is on his side tonight and the man walks straight to the kerb, holding up his hand in a weak signal as the rain beats down on him. Louis groans gratefully as he pulls over in front of the lad, careful not to spray him with the dirty rain water sitting on the street.

“Awful out there, innit?” Louis says in lieu of a greeting as the man slides into the backseat, taking up every inch of leg space with his long limbs. Louis glances back and notes his black jeans and crisp button-up, his slumped shoulders.

“Cold and wet,” the lad answers slowly, tiredly. “Sixteen Parkside Lane.”

Louis' already driving and he starts planning out the route in his head when something comes over him, some foggy recognition. He steals a glance in the rearview mirror, the streetlights flashing over the man's face just enough for him to become more and more confident that he's seen that face before, maybe even knew it well at one point.

“I don't know you, do I?” He asks tentatively, not wanting to scare the man, even if he's quite positive he does know him. Or did, maybe, once upon a time.

“Don't reckon,” the man says, looking out the window.

Louis doesn't push it, just focuses on the road again. Maybe it doesn't matter even if Louis does know him. Only a minute passes by, the sound of rain and traffic filling the silence before the man speaks again.

“Louis,” he says, almost in a whisper, and when Louis looks into the rearview mirror again, the man is staring back. And Louis remembers then, he knows who's sitting in the back of his taxi.

“Harry.” He has to remind himself to pay attention to the road before he drives them both into a ditch.

“Yeah, god, how've you been?” He looks like he's trying to force his smile, looks so tired in the shadows.

Louis remembers when that smile beamed so brightly at him, like rays of sunlight passing between them. He remembers his laughter, unguarded and pure, remembers the feeling of causing that laughter. It was the best kind of feeling and it comes back to him, a bit, in the moment.

“Y'know,” he answers with a small smile, unable to stop flicking his gaze up to the mirror, wanting to take in as much as he can of the boy who was so many of Louis' firsts. “Crazy, this, innit?”

“Crazy,” Harry agrees, nodding through the shadows. “How long has it been?”

Louis tries to count, but the years seem to smudge together. “Few years,” he answers with a shrug, turning north. “More 'n a few, maybe.”

Louis was nineteen when Harry went off in search of something better than him, a glamorous life of fame and fortune. He got halfway, at least, Louis figures from the way he's dressed and the address he'd given.

“Eight years?” Harry says softly, almost like he's doing the maths in his head and he can't believe what it's adding up to. “Shit, eight years. Doesn't seem so-” He shakes his head and looks up just as Louis is stealing another glance in the rearview mirror. “I still remember you so well.”

Louis nods slowly, keeping his eyes on the road this time. His thoughts of Harry have dwindled over the past few years, but thinking about it now, he remembers it all clearly.

They'd met in secondary school, back when Louis had convinced himself he was straight, even when the most gorgeous boy he'd ever met walked into his classroom. Harry was new, had just moved to town with his mum and sister, and luck or fate or some sort of higher power had placed him in the seat next to Louis.

Harry was easy to like and he liked people easily, too. He grinned at Louis and introduced himself and Louis ignored the electricity running through him as he greeted the boy. Harry had messy curls and bright eyes and Louis tried not to notice any of that.

They became friends, studying together and playing video games and going to the park to listen to music on Harry's iPod, sharing a set of earbuds. Louis kept any extra feelings he had buried, content to just be around Harry and make him laugh.

When Louis got his first car a few months later, he started driving Harry home from school every day. Most days, they'd stop at the park and drink a couple of beers that Harry had snuck from his mum or, on the rare occasion they could find some, share a poorly-rolled joint that was barely strong enough to get them stoned. Louis still hid his feelings, from Harry and from himself, even as more of them developed. He covered them up, buried deep down where he wouldn't have to acknowledge them.

But one day, Louis was driving Harry home after studying all afternoon and having tea at his house. The sun had just set and Harry asked Louis to stop by the park, the one they knew so well. Louis did, not knowing what the boy had up his sleeve. He seemed giddy, almost, like he had a plan.

When Louis cut the engine, Harry scrambled over the back of his seat, gracelessly falling into the back seat. Louis followed, after being urged to, and he sat nervously beside the boy in the dark, waiting for Harry to tell him about one of the girls he was rumoured to have dated, some secret he'd been keeping.

Instead, he leaned close to Louis and giggled nervously, touching Louis' cheek with cold fingers. He asked for permission, not explaining what he wanted permission for, but Louis' answer was all the same. Yes, it was always yes with Harry.

Harry ripped away Louis' cover when their lips touched, all of his feelings rushing up to the surface as he kissed him back, praying it wasn't some joke to Harry, just a laugh. But somehow, even in those first few moments, Louis knew that wasn't what it was. He knew the boy better than that.

They spent most nights kissing in the backseat of his car from then on. They would laugh and talk and snog until their lips went numb from the friction. Harry would whisper about how he was going to become an singer, his voice filled with naïve excitement, and Louis admitted that he'd always wanted to be an actor, maybe theatre, if only to escape reality for a bit each night. He never felt silly for dreaming big with Harry, never felt like he had to lie. It was a first for him. He'd never even told his mum some of the things he told Harry.

“I remember you, too,” Louis finally agrees quietly, gripping the wheel tightly and turning down another street, the houses getting bigger and bigger as they pass. “Did you ever, you know- are you singing and all that?”

The fatigue on Harry's face seems to multiply as Louis glances into the rearview mirror, the man's face turning away and looking out the window. Louis realises too late that maybe it was a rude question to ask, that eight years have passed and they're not the same boys anymore who told each other everything and never had to feel ashamed.

“I do, sometimes,” Harry finally answers, gaze still pointed towards the passing lights outside the car. “Not quite what I'd dreamed or anything, but I do sing.”

Louis could tell him that it's okay he didn't completely realise his dreams. He could tell him that he hadn't gotten close himself, hadn't even really tried. He could point out that Harry is the one in the back of Louis' _taxi_ , proving that he's gotten a lot further than Louis has, but he doesn't. Instead, he pulls into the driveway of a huge house, just shy of what Louis would label as a mansion, and stops in front of the gate.

The rain has slowed, but it still pings against the metal roof of the car, filling the silence with hushed white noise. Louis turns in his seat just enough to be able to look at Harry face to face for the first time since picking him up.

“It was good to see you,” he says quietly, trying not to think of the size of the house and the light that's on in one of the rooms and what that means.

“It was,” Harry says kindly, even through the distance that eight years has put between them. “We should get together sometime. Have lunch and catch up, something like that.”

Louis smiles politely, remembering a time when he wouldn't dream of being polite with Harry. Eight years changes a lot, though, and Louis feels compelled to respect the distance the time has put between them.

“That'd be nice,” Louis says, already knowing that it's an empty offer and when Harry gets out of this taxi, they won't be seeing each other again. There's too much time, too much distance. They live in different worlds now.

Harry smiles again, almost sadly, tired wrinkles feathering his face, the years evident in his skin. He's not an innocent teenager anymore. He's grown up, probably seen enough of the world to make him realise it's a lot shittier than he'd thought when he was eighteen and had chastised Louis again and again for not seeing the best in things. Louis feels a spark of regret, his heart dropping, wishing it didn't have to happen.

When Harry pays his fare, he tells him to keep the change and Louis tries not to be bitter that Harry is one of those people now, living in his huge house and tipping more than double the original fare just because he can. Louis' grown to hate those people, if only on principle, and he's sad that Harry is one of them now.

“See you around,” Harry says with a moment of hesitation, then climbs out of the car and into the rain.

Louis watches him walk through the gate and up to his perfect home, his shoulders slumped as the rain beats down on them. When Harry disappears into the house, Louis knows that's that. They hadn't exchanged phone numbers, don't know anything about each other anymore.

Louis backs out of the drive and tries to leave the past behind as he heads home.

* * *

Walking into his flat, he's not surprised to find Niall on the couch next to Zayn, the faint smell of weed already floating in the air. Louis sighs, dropping his keys and wallet on the counter, and kicks off his shoes, not bothered when they land two metres apart.

“Honey, you're home,” Zayn says slowly, his mouth quirking into a smile.

Louis rolls his eyes and drops into the empty space beside him, dropping his head back against the couch. He doesn't respond, just lets his eyelids fall and sits there for a long moment, breathing in the sourness of the air, hoping for a contact high.

“Rough night?” Zayn asks.

Louis isn't sure, honestly. He isn't sure if it was rough or not, if he's glad he got to see Harry or if he isn't. He supposes it doesn't matter, in the grand scheme of things. He'll forget Harry bit by bit once again, let him fade into the past. And that's fine, really, because Louis has his own life now. It may not be much, might not be fancy houses and buckets of cash to throw around, but it's his and it's something.

Instead of responding, he shrugs his shoulders and reaches over to the table beside the couch, grabbing the spliff he'd smoked half of earlier. He lights the blackened tip and breathes in deep, letting it burn his lungs.

“I've never seen him this quiet,” Niall whispers loudly from the other side of Zayn. “Should I be concerned?”

Louis exhales, a wisp of smoke pouring out of his mouth, and he turns toward the two of them, leveling them both with an unimpressed look.

“If you really want to talk,” Louis drawls, “there are things I'd gladly bring up.” He gives Niall a significant look, pointedly flicking his gaze between he and Zayn. “You know, if you're in a talkative mood.”

Niall looks away and Zayn seems to stiffen up and Louis would laugh if he wasn't feeling spiky and bitter about the night and the past eight years and the world in general.

It's possibly ridiculous to let a chance meeting with his teenage love affect him so much. But that's what he was, he was Louis' first _love_ , his _only_ love, not some boy he used to exchange handjobs with just to pass the time. Louis loved him for two and a half years, and then some more after Harry'd left. He can still feel it, can remember the butterflies Harry gave him and the way he felt comfortable with him. He remembers Harry trusting him and feeling protective and he remembers never ever wanting anything to change, wanting to keep Harry forever.

He also remembers finding out Harry wanted more, remembers the pain of realising he wasn't enough and never would be.

“Think I'll go to bed,” he mumbles, keeping the spliff between his fingers as he heads toward his bedroom. “Night, lads.”

In bed, he smokes the spliff down, staring at the opposite wall. The weed at least dulls his thoughts enough that he can fall asleep without wondering who Harry is falling asleep next to at this very moment, if he's still thinking of Louis at all. Or if, as he suspects, Harry's already let him go, forgotten all about their meeting, just like he probably did eight years ago when he went away and never turned back.

* * *

In the morning, Louis walks into the kitchen to find Zayn sitting on the countertop, legs dangling below him as he sips a cup of tea with a frown on his face. He's as much of a morning person as Louis, so it's a familiar sight, Zayn frowning over his tea with scruff on his face and hair a mess.

“Mornin',” Louis says gruffly, heading straight for the cupboard to grab his favourite mug. He pours himself some tea, then hops onto the counter across from Zayn. He's glad he taught Zayn how to brew a proper pot of tea and he takes a long sip, letting the slightly bitter taste wake him up.

“Where's Niall?” He asks, opening the cupboard next to him and fishing out a packet of biscuits. It's maybe not the healthiest breakfast, but it's something he can get to without dropping down from his perch on the countertop.

“Went home,” Zayn answers, staring blankly ahead.

Louis pops a biscuit into his mouth, chews, and swallows before responding. “Last night or this morning?”

Zayn looks up for a moment, glaring, then goes back to staring at nothing. “Last night.”

Louis rolls his eyes to himself, then eats another biscuit, following it with a sip of tea. Zayn's a royal idiot about the whole thing, he really is. It's been obvious for months that he's got a thing for the Irish bloke, but Zayn has insisted again and again that they're just friends and that the one time they got each other off was purely the consequence of an unexpectedly strong batch of weed and too many beers to count. It doesn't change the fact that Zayn looks at Niall like no one else, though, soft eyes and gentle smiles. It doesn't change the way Niall smiles back, either, unwavering and bright, like Zayn is the only thing he cares to see.

“Maybe next time you should ask him to stay,” Louis says slowly, like it's the blatantly obvious solution but Zayn's too dim to figure it out himself. “You've got a big enough bed.”

Zayn glares again, then sets his tea down, hopping off the counter. “I told you, Lou, he's not gay.” He opens the refrigerator, peering curiously inside.

“Neither are you.”

Zayn picks a yoghurt out of the fridge and checks the date on the side before closing the door and going to grab a spoon. “Yeah, but I'm like-” he waves the spoon in the air as if that means something, then leans back against the counter. “I'm open, I guess.”

“How do you know he's not?”

Zayn slowly eats three spoonfuls of yoghurt before he replies. “I just do. He would've said something by now. Anyway, it's not a big deal. Plenty of fish, right?”

Louis takes a sip of tea, only refraining from rolling his eyes again because it's too much effort and he's tired. “Plenty of fish, yes. Fish you've shown no interest in catching since you met Niall.”

Zayn throws away the rest of his yoghurt and drops the spoon in the sink, glaring at Louis again. “I don't see you going after any fish lately. Unless you count that bloke you sucked off in the toilets at a club last month.”

It's true that Louis' been going through a dry spell. He'd had a string of boyfriends in his early-to-mid twenties but he's been single for a couple of years, relying on the occasional hook up to tide him over. But honestly, he's alright with it. Dating is always such a hassle and it seems pointless when it so rarely works out well.

“I don't have one fish in particular practically jumping out of the water, asking to be caught,” Louis retorts, knowing Zayn will drop it when the topic goes back to Niall. He's always so touchy, dismissing anything Louis says on the matter.

Sure enough, Zayn tells him to shut up, then walks out of the kitchen, disappearing into his bedroom. Louis eats one last biscuit, then puts the packet back in the cupboard, dropping down to the floor. He fills his mug with the last of the tea and heads into the living room, flopping down on the couch and reaching for the remote.

He doesn't work until the evening, almost never works days, and he's become a pro at wasting time. Telly, video games, pot, facebook, mindless games on his mobile. He switches on the telly and lets it fill the room with background noise as he opens his laptop.

It takes about five minutes of pretending he's not going to do it before he types _harry styles_ into google. The search immediately comes back with thousands and thousands of results, none seeming to be in reference to the Harry Styles he's curious about. He tries _harry styles london_ and the results narrow down, but still seem to be a bit all over the place. He scans them hopelessly until one catches his eye, a little article from a local newpaper on local musicians.

It doesn't say much, but there's a picture of Harry on a small stage, mouth open and eyes closed as he sings into a microphone. The blurb below it just notes that he's a local singer who's become a familiar face at some hotel, playing shows every weekend.

Louis frowns and scrolls to the top of the page, checking for a date. He sees that it's almost a year old and sighs. The odds that he's still playing there are low and, even if Louis has no intention of popping by for a surprise visit, it would have been nice to know something about who he is now. This is something, though, a tiny little nugget of information. He tucks it away in the back of his mind, then closes the page, determined to forget all about it.

An hour later, his phone buzzes next to him and he peers over to see Liam's name on the screen. He grabs it lazily, answering.

“Hey,” he says, closing his laptop and leaning back against the couch.

“Lou,” Liam says, sounding energy-buzzed and breathless. “They want me to do an album, Lou, that label I met with? They want to sign me on to make a real, actual album.”

Louis snaps up into a sitting position, gripping the phone harder. “You serious, Payne?” He asks loudly, glad Zayn's gone off to work. It's a rhetorical question anyway, since Liam doesn't know how to pull pranks.

“I'm serious, oh god, I'm shaking, I can't believe-” Liam cuts off his rambling and Louis can only grin, feeling the warmth of pride for his friend spread through him. “They want me to write the songs,” he says, quieter and shakier now. “I've never really written anything I wanted anyone to hear. I don't know if I can do it.”

Louis rolls his eyes and leans back again, the shock wearing off and fading into happiness. “You can do a lot more than you think you can, Li. I mean, did you think you could land yourself a bloody record deal?”

“No, never,” Liam answers, sounding awestruck like it still hasn't quite sunk in.

“Exactly,” Louis says around his smile. “You never give yourself enough credit.”

It's true enough, too. Louis doesn't know much about Liam's adolescence, but what he does know makes him realise he's never quite shaken the insecurities he'd developed in his youth. It didn't help when he tried out for one of those reality singing shows and got rejected twice.

“Shit,” Liam says after a long silence, his voice wobbling, then mumbles, “I think I'm gonna go throw up now.”

Louis laughs and tells him to go on and get it all up before ending the call. He sits in silence, staring at nothing for a while, wondering what it would feel like to dream big and achieve it. He hasn't even let himself do the first part since he was nineteen, whispering into Harry's ear about how someday Louis would be performing on Broadway and Harry would be playing Madison Square Garden as they curled together in the back of Louis' car, naked and sweaty and so, so in love.

If only he'd known then that Harry was already planning to leave.

He tries to shake the thoughts of Harry away once and for all, but they stick there, stubborn and persistent as Louis tries to focus on being happy for his friend.

It doesn't take long for him to decide to smoke Harry out instead, heading into his bedroom and grabbing a thin spliff from the box next to his bed. He leans out the window even though they'd disarmed the smoke detectors ages ago. The cool, damp air feels nice on his skin as he breathes in what he hopes will be a cure.

* * *

A week later, he's still thinking about Harry, but his thoughts have gotten fuzzier, more abstract. It's not the overwhelming tidal wave of memories it was, not the loud, insistent recollections that were screaming in his head. They've faded now, leaving Louis with a dull sort of pain in the pit of his chest, wedged up under his heart and squeezing in on his lungs.

Now it's Louis lying in bed, trying to imagine how it would've played out if Harry hadn't left him behind, writing them a story starting the minute before the words _i'm moving to london_ were uttered. He writes them something like a fairytale in his mind, gives Harry a stroke of luck and a record deal and he gives himself a boyfriend who put him first, always, forever.

In this story, Harry's label sends him to New York City, hoping that the accent and the curls and the swoon-worthy dimples will be enough to gain him American attention. (It does, of course, because between the voice and the charm, Harry is unstoppable.) But Harry refuses to go without Louis, so he takes him along. Louis auditions for a few shows and catches the eye of a big-time director and that's that. They're successful and happy and they go back to their beautiful flat in Chelsea at the end of the day and make love on the polished hardwood floors.

Pulling himself out of the story and into real life always stings sharply, making Louis' throat feel tight when he looks at his surroundings, grabs his keys, and walks out to the taxi.

He's lonely, he'll admit. It's not the sort of loneliness that makes him want to go out and finally find _the right one_ , though. He still doesn't want to date, doesn't want the hassle. It's the sort of loneliness that has him cuddling up with Zayn a bit more, just wanting to feel the comfort of someone familiar wrapped around him.

But when Zayn drags him out on a Thursday night when Louis isn't working, he goes along, putting on the clothes Zayn picks out for him and misting himself with cologne when he's told to. He follows along as Zayn leads them to the nearest club, just a few blocks away. Louis is glad it's an easy walk; he hates taking taxis.

He's not surprised to see Niall waiting outside, the music thumping loudly through the walls, hitting him like a hurricane when he follows the two boys inside. Louis goes through the motions, accepting a beer and a shot when Zayn hands them over. They'd shared a bowl at the flat so he's already a bit fuzzy, but the alcohol makes him feel warm and floaty, taking his blurred thoughts and swirling them around in his head until he can't catch one.

He throws back two more shots before he leaves Zayn and Niall to do their flirting without really flirting thing and he heads to the dance floor. With his eyes closed, he dances in little movements, his beer curled against his chest. He lets the bass of the blaring music beat in his chest like a pulse, his heart finding the rhythm of the song.

When he opens his eyes, they settle on a cute bloke watching him from across the floor. Louis stares back for a moment, then looks for the toilets, spotting a sign in the back corner. Shouldering his way through the crowd, he finally makes it and steps into the fluorescent-lit space, the music still loud, but muffled. It makes Louis feel drunker, somehow, like he's underwater and everything is far away.

The bloke shows up then and Louis glances at him once before stepping into a stall ahead of him. He locks them inside and Louis leans back against the wall, letting his eyelids fall.

“Gonna pretend it's someone else,” Louis mumbles. “That alright?”

The bloke laughs softly as his fingers start prying open the button on Louis' jeans, pulling the zip down. “Sure, that's alright.”

Louis nods, sighing when his pants are tugged down and his cock slides into a nice, warm mouth.

He's lonely. And if he can't feel someone familiar wrapped around him, this will have to do. He'll just have to get lost in the story in his head, pretend that, instead of being sucked off by a stranger in a club, he's in his flat in Chelsea with the only person he's ever figured out how to love kneeling at his feet.

It's just enough to carry him through it until he's coming on the random bloke's tongue.

They part with a kiss on the cheek and without exchanging phone numbers. Louis just would have given a fake one anyway.

* * *

 

When they leave to go home, Louis is surprised to find that Niall isn't with them. He holds onto Zayn's hand as they walk the dark street back to their flat, not sure who's holding onto whom. Louis is still drunk, but not so much that he can't walk in a straight line, and Zayn seems fine apart from his notable silence.

By the time they get home, Louis knows there's something wrong, so he passes his own room to follow Zayn into his, wordlessly crawling into his bed once his shoes are kicked off. Zayn doesn't even look, just strips off his worn plaid button-up and his ripped black jeans, then gets into bed beside Louis.

“What happened?” Louis asks, already knowing he probably won't get an answer.

Zayn shakes his head and turns onto his side, facing away from Louis. “Nothing, it's fine,” he replies quietly. “Plenty of fish.”

Louis doesn't say another word, but presses up against Zayn's back, finding as much comfort in the position himself as he's probably giving the other boy.

* * *

Zayn doesn't tell him what happened the next day. Or the next day. Louis keeps trying to get him to talk, somehow feeling satisfaction in having someone else's life to worry about instead of his own.

Luckily, Liam helps when Zayn is stubborn in the matter, sending him constant panicked texts about his lack of songwriting progress. Louis reminds him again and again that he _just_ got signed and he has _time_ , but Liam doesn't seem to hear him.

Finally, the following Monday, Zayn admits what's had him sulking around the flat since the night they'd gone to the club. Louis has two hours before he has to leave for work and Zayn comes out of his room, dropping heavily onto the sofa and staring at the wall in silence.

“Would you just tell me already?” Louis pleads. “Did you try to kiss him or something? Did he push you away?”

Zayn is silent for a moment before he finally speaks, avoiding Louis' gaze. “I didn't bloody kiss him,” he says, words mumbled, before he sighs, dropping his head back. “Thank _fuck_ I didn't kiss him.”

Louis gives him a minute before he pushes further. “Okay, so what did happen then?”

Zayn chews at his lip, licking out over it, his eyes far away, like he's lost deep in thought. “Went to get us drinks. When I came back, he was dancing with some girl. Like, dick-grinding-against-arse dancing.”

Louis waits a beat, but when it's clear Zayn isn't going to say any more, he asks, “And?”

“And nothing,” Zayn says sharply, finally turning toward Louis. “He was grinding against a girl and he's straight and I'm an idiot for thinking-” He cuts himself off, looking away again, shaking his head.

Louis sighs softly to himself before moving over to cuddle up against Zayn's side. He rests his head on the lad's bony shoulder, curling half around him. “You dance with girls all the time, Z. It doesn't mean you don't still fancy him.” He really wishes Zayn would give Niall more credit. He may have been stoned off his arse at the time, but he _did_ let Zayn get him off and he _did_ get Zayn off in return. Even if he identifies as straight, it's clear he's not really closed-minded on the whole thing.

Zayn shakes his head and Louis can tell how much he's hurting. “I wouldn't dance with a girl with him there,” he says, almost whispering. “Wouldn't dance with anyone but him.”

Louis feels for his mate, he really does. He gives him a tight squeeze, frowning into his shoulder even as he realises that it's sort of funny, really. He's been telling himself to let go of the past, telling himself he's not nineteen anymore. He's an adult, an entirely different person, and it's fucking ridiculous to be so hung up on something that happened eight years ago.

But nothing's _really_ changed. At nineteen or twenty-seven, a crush is a crush. Zayn may as well have been stood up at the prom.

Louis' not sure if that proves that what he felt as a teenager with Harry was real or if it proves that everyone acts like a teenager when they're in love. Maybe both, maybe neither. He supposes it doesn't actually matter.

“I still think you should tell him,” Louis mumbles against Zayn's shoulder.

It's not a question and he doesn't expect a response. But he can tell from the way Zayn slumps down then that the answer is _no_ anyway.

* * *

When Louis moved to London three years after Harry had, it wasn't the possibility of fame and fortune that drew him to the city. He'd spent those three years helping out at home and ignoring the ache of being left behind. He took care of his siblings and did the shopping for his mum, trying to ease the burden on her as much as possible.

But it only seemed to bring her down, seeing her eldest child tie himself down to a life that he hadn't built for himself. So with a little push from her and a long, rambling voicemail from Zayn, saying his girlfriend had left him, Louis took off. He moved in with Zayn, got the first job he could find, and forced himself not to wonder what would have happened if he'd done this three years earlier, if he'd told Harry he would come with him.

He's still not sure why Harry never asked. He wishes it could be anything other than the simple fact that it meant more to Louis, what they had.

But he built his own life anyway, even if there wasn't much to it. He had Zayn and their flat and his taxi. He had a handful of acquaintances and the city he'd grown to know like the back of his hand. He found Liam soon after and, even though the bloke drove him mad at first, with his constant worrying and needing everything to be just _so_ , they fell into a fast friendship. He's better now, a bit corrupted by Louis, but there are still times when he gets annoyingly high-strung.

Like tonight. He's been texting constantly throughout the evening and Louis has finally given up on getting his last fare, driving to Liam's flat instead. He goes to the door and hits the buzzer, hearing Liam's crackling voice answer.

“Hello?”

“Let me up, you fuck,” Louis answers, gripping the case of beer he'd picked up on the way.

When the door clicks open, Louis climbs the stairs to the second floor and finds Liam's door. It's open so Louis doesn't waste time with knocking, just pushes his way in, locking it behind him.

Inside, he finds Liam lying on his back in the middle of his living room, a notebook open to a blank page beside him and his guitar propped against the sofa.

“Are you here to help or give me shit?” Liam asks, looking up from his position with a pitiful expression. “I'd just like to know ahead of time.”

Louis rolls his eyes to himself. He'd love to give him _a world_ of shit, but he can't muster up the energy for it. “I'm only going to help if you drink this,” he says, setting the beer down on his coffee table. “And smoke this,” he adds, pulling a spliff out of his pocket.

The fact that Liam doesn't immediately say no shows how desperate he is. He only smokes on rare occasions, mostly when he's going through a particularly bad break up or that time he was practically laughed at when he played his demo for some big executive.

“Only a little,” he finally answers, eyeing the spliff. “And not inside, we have to go out on the balcony.”

It's a chilly night, but it's not terrible for London, so Louis agrees to his conditions, tearing open the case of beer and handing Liam a can before getting his own.

Outside, the wind is just strong enough that Louis feels it through his hoodie, cooling his skin underneath. He doesn't mind terribly, though, just lights up the spliff, taking a couple of hits before passing it off to Liam.

“So what's the problem then?” Louis asks as Liam coughs around his exhale.

Once Liam's cleared his lungs, he shakes his head, handing the spliff back. “Everything's the problem. I don't even know where to start. I don't know what to write about.”

Louis takes a long pull from his beer, then a hit, then another sip of beer. “The _problem_ ,” he says, leaning against the railing, “is that you're thinking too much. Something like this can't be- you can't treat it like a maths equation.” He looks down, flicking the dead ash away. “You have to feel it, not think it. You have to let go a bit and just write.” He glances up, holding the spliff out with a lifted eyebrow.

Liam drops his gaze from Louis to the pot and he breathes in a deep breath, then takes it between his fingers, nodding. Honestly, it's the only way to get someone like Liam to stop thinking so much. Drugs and probably sex, but Louis is definitely not going down that road. Liam is fit and everything, but so not Louis' type, not by any stretch. He'd rather fuck Zayn.

They finish off the spliff between them and Louis drinks his beer quickly, hoping it will warm him up. By the time they slip back inside, though, he's shaking the numbness out of his hands, his ears and nose pinking up.

After another beer, Louis feels warm again, pleasantly fuzzy as he sits on the floor next to the sofa, his head rolling back against Liam's leg. Liam's still groaning, though, at a loss as to what to write.

“Write about Danielle,” Louis suggests, picking up the pen Liam's dropped onto the floor beside him and wiggling it between his fingers. “You certainly had a lot to say when you two broke up.”

“Yeah, but I don't feel that anymore,” Liam says, rolling onto his side, his shin bumping Louis' head. “I can't write something I don't still feel, can I?”

Louis thinks about that, something catching in his chest. His mind drifts to Harry, as it so often has lately. He can still remember the feeling of loving him, can feel it so strongly it's overwhelming. He can feel the ache of losing him, too, can feel it all.

Maybe Liam was never really in love if he can't recall what it felt like. Or maybe Louis just needs to get a fucking grip and move on.

“You can write about anything,” Louis says softly, lost deep in his own thoughts. “If it was me, I'd write about the things I felt most strongly about, even if it was in the past.” An image flashes in his mind, Harry underneath him for the first time, the car windows frosted and a thin layer of sweat matting his curls to his forehead.

The way he'd stared up at Louis, nothing hidden.

The way he'd never stopped looking up, trusting him every second as Louis sunk inside, pressing into his body.

“I'd write about falling in love,” Louis mumbles, feeling just drunk enough to let the words slip out. “The excitement and the recklessness of it. I'd write about desperation and- and the way it feels to not hide any part of you. And the thrill of knowing that they want you completely, even the worst of you.”

Liam shifts behind him, but stays silent, probably thinking about his own experiences. Louis releases a shaky exhale, fingers gripping his beer can, the cold sweat of it pooling at his fingertips.

“I'd write about that feeling,” he goes on quietly. “A moment so perfect that you know you could stay in it forever and never get bored with it. Just you and them, and the leather seats sticking to your skin. If it was me, I'd write about that, the sound of their breath and the green of their eyes and how you've never found anything so wonderful since.”

He stares ahead, his lips feeling numb and his lungs struggling to inflate because the air around him seems to have thinned since he started talking. He sees it so clearly, remembers working his hips against Harry's arse, can almost feel his long legs wrapping around his waist now. He remembers when Harry's eyes started to glisten with unshed tears and he can still hear the response after Louis had asked if he was okay.

 _Perfect,_ he'd said. _It's perfect._

And it was. It was so perfect that Louis feels his own eyes grow hot in the moment, embarrassed by his reaction to the memory. He drops his head and closes his eyes, trying to think of anything else.

He barely even notices the scratch of pen on paper, Liam writing furiously behind him.

* * *

When he wakes up on Liam's couch, his head is fuzzy and the memories of the night before come back slowly as he acclimates himself to his surroundings. The sun is dim where it streams in through the glass doors leading out to the balcony, but it's enough to make Louis grumble, flipping over onto his stomach to point away from the light.

That's when he sees papers scattering the floor below him, scribbled words across the pages, some in Liam's scrawl and some in his own. He picks one up, his movements sluggish, and he reads the words _we learned about love in the back of a Ford, the lesson hadn't gone too far_ , before he drops it, groaning to himself.

He'd told Liam through lyrics, he'd told him about Harry, about loving him and being left.

If he wasn't so tired, he'd be mortified when Liam enters the room a minute later, smiling sleepily, his eyes ten times brighter than when Louis had arrived the night before. He walks around the mess of papers and sits on the couch at Louis' feet, waiting a few minutes before he finally says anything.

“So, who knew you're a bloody brilliant songwriter?” He says and Louis buries his head under his arms, grunting his disagreement. “No, seriously, Lou,” Liam goes on, “you saved my arse. We did so much good stuff last night and, listen, you've got to write this album with me.”

Louis flings his arms away and lifts his head enough to stare incredulously at Liam. “Are you still stoned, mate?”

Liam turns in his seat, excitement shining in his eyes. “Come on, seriously. You're incredible and like, when it's the two of us, _I_ even wrote some good stuff.” He looks shy, but he doesn't stop, reaching down to grip Louis' ankle as he lowers his voice. “I need you for this, _please._ Help me write my album.”

Louis could point out that it was probably just the weed that made it good and maybe that's what Liam needs, not Louis. Louis isn't- he's not a writer, has never been particularly good with words. It's just Harry, really, that makes him feel a bit poetic.

And that's the fucked up part. Louis could probably write a dozen albums about those two and a half years, but that's all he has. Just the memory of that short period of time, just some words on a page that prove he hasn't done anything with his life since he was a teenager.

He leaves without giving Liam a firm answer, assuming that the lad will eventually realise he doesn't need him and it won't come up again.

* * *

Louis isn't sure what exactly has happened, but as the week goes on, it becomes clear that Zayn and Niall have made up. The blonde has been around again, maybe even more than before. And even though things seem to be getting back to normal and Zayn hasn't been nearly as mopey since Niall's return, Louis knows Zayn still hasn't told him. There's still hesitance in their smiles and touches and Louis has to fight the urge to shake both of them.

That Sunday, Niall is at theirs when Zayn suggests a film. Louis had worked the rare day shift after working late the night before and he's absolutely knackered, but he agrees anyway. He curls up in the armchair, giving the other two the couch, and halfway through the film, his eyelids are falling, unable to stay open anymore.

He floats somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness as the film plays on. He hears the sounds from the telly but they seem far away from his sleepy mind. When the sounds of the film come to an end, soft music playing over the credits, Louis is tugged back toward consciousness. The other two lads haven't moved and he curiously opens one eye, peeking over to the couch.

He's not sure what he's expecting, but his stomach flips when he sees the way they're looking at each other silently, the light from the credits flickering over their faces. Louis can practically feel the butterflies as he watches without moving, wanting them to have their moment.

“Hi,” Niall whispers, so softly that Louis can barely hear it.

Louis can tell Zayn's probably nervous, the blush on his cheeks almost visible in the shadows. “Hi,” he replies, just as quietly.

Louis feels the heat on his own skin, remembers the excitement of a first kiss when it actually means something. He watches as Niall turns in his seat more, lifting his leg over Zayn's lap. He sees the way Zayn's eyelids flutter when Niall touches his neck and he watches as they move in slowly and shakily. When their lips meet, even _Louis_ is relieved. He can only imagine how they feel.

He closes his eyes, then, unable to fall asleep, but not wanting to intrude or interrupt. He lets his thoughts wander, trying not to pay attention to the soft sounds of kissing from across the room.

When they disappear into Zayn's bedroom, they don't say a word. They shuffle slowly out of the room and Louis opens his eyes just in time to see their fingers intertwined where Zayn is leading Niall, and the sweet smiles on their faces.

Louis is glad for his friend, he is. He's so glad for him, for _both_ of them, but his loneliness multiplies in the moment, swelling in his chest until it's practically suffocating.

He eventually goes to bed, sending out a quick text before he falls asleep alone.

_busy tomorrow night? come over? xx_

* * *

The next day, Liam texts him a long string of sad emojis, begging him to come over for another writing session. He's been trying ever since Louis last saw him and he finally texts back when he's stopped at a hotel after dropping someone off.

_FINE.. not tonight tho, tomorrow?_

The rest of his shift goes by slowly, making small talk with the people he picks up, dropping them off, then repeating the cycle. When he finally gets home, Zayn is sitting on the kitchen counter, eating a slice of pizza.

“Hey, bro,” he greets around a mouthful of it when Louis walks into the room. “Got sausage and jalapeno. Have at.”

Louis checks the clock, deciding he has enough time to eat and brush the taste out of his mouth, so he grabs a slice from the open box and hops up on the counter across from Zayn, his regular spot.

“So,” he starts, biting off a piece of the pizza. “Anything you want to talk about?” He waggles his eyebrows, not-so-subtly hinting.

Zayn shakes his head, but can't stop the grin that lights up in his eyes, the curl at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, you might've been right,” he concedes, dropping his crust into the pizza box and wiping his hands on his jeans. “Like, he called me and said he missed me and he came by and it was just, I don't know, it was just different.” He shrugs, but he's blushing now, trying so hard not to grin. “And then last night, when you were asleep, it just kind of happened?”

Louis rolls his eyes hard. “I know it did. I wasn't asleep, dumbass.”

Even at that, Zayn can't find himself to scowl, as hard as he may try. “Dude! That's fucked up, bro, really.”

“I wasn't, like, watching,” Louis defends, holding his hands up when Zayn whips a piece of sausage at him. “Or, at least not the whole time.”

Zayn throws another piece of sausage, eyes twinkling happily through his mock anger. Louis easily deflects it, then settles down, smiling over at his friend.

“So, other than the couch kissing?” He asks, lifting his eyebrows curiously. “I know I didn't wake up to the headboard slamming against the wall or anything.”

Zayn looks down, swinging his legs below him so they thump against the cabinet. “Yeah, I mean, I didn't want to freak him out or anything, but-” he hesitates, shrugging. “But yeah, we, uh- we did enough.”

Louis smirks around his bite of pizza, swallowing it down before he replies. “So he's not as afraid of dick as you thought?”

For that, Zayn jumps off the counter and pulls Louis down as well, tackling him to the floor. As Zayn tries to catch his wrists to pin him, Louis feels something suspiciously like sausage under his head and this is definitely not the time to have any kind of meat product smashed into his hair.

“Fuck, get off,” he wheezes, hands flying up to pick the sausage out of his hair with a grimace. “Great, lovely,” he mumbles, pushing Zayn off of him.

“Not the worst you've had in your hair,” Zayn snips as he backs off, rolling onto the floor beside Louis.

Before Louis can come up with a retort, there's a knock at the door and he whispers _fuck_ under his breath, pushing himself up. He's got jalapeno breath and sausage hair and this is already a disaster.

When he opens the door, Jack is standing there, looking as good as ever. His hair is a bit different from the last time Louis saw him. It's still dark brown, but he's got it styled into a loose, messy quiff instead of down like it had been.

“Hey,” he says, smiling when he sees Louis, the dimples in his cheeks appearing.

Louis' always been such a sucker for dimples.

“Hi,” Louis says, looking up at the familiar face. “I've got jalapeno breath, but if you give me one second-”

Before he can excuse himself to wash the taste out of his mouth, Jack is pulling him in and kissing him right there in the doorway. Louis squeaks out a little surprised noise, but melts into it quickly. He'd forgotten what a good kisser Jack was, but he remembers now, feeling the gentle way he licks into his mouth, slowly flicking his tongue against Louis'.

“Good thing I like jalapenos,” Jack says when he pulls away, leaving Louis breathless. “I'm glad you called.”

Louis nods as he catches his breath. “Me too,” he says honestly.

He'd met Jack years ago, when Louis was new to the city, at a club. They went home together and exchanged numbers and it just became a thing. When they both found themselves single, they'd fool around fairly regularly, no strings attached.

He's exactly what Louis needs right now. He needs someone he can be with, someone to fuck and then hold him as he falls asleep. He needs someone to have a laugh with, someone he trusts.

Most of all, he needs to forget about the past and start living his bloody life.

When he pulls Jack inside, Zayn is still sitting on the kitchen floor, except now he's got his phone out and he's grinning at whatever it says. Louis sighs, slipping his hand up Jack's back, impressed by the good shape he's kept himself in.

“Zayn finally kissed the boy he's mad about last night,” Louis whispers loudly, turning to the taller man. “He's gone a bit soppy and gross as a result.” It's true, but honestly, Louis' happy for him. Better soppy than stroppy.

“Oh, hey,” Zayn says, finally noticing the new person in their flat. “Shit, sorry, didn't-” He scrambles up off the floor to his feet. “Long time, no see,” he says curiously, gaze flicking over to Louis as he leans in to give Jack a quick one-armed hug.

“Yeah, man, good to see you,” Jack replies, slinking his arm around Louis' waist when Zayn steps back. “And congratulations on the whole kissing thing.”

Zayn gives Louis a death glare, but at least he's not throwing sausage in front of company. He goes back to texting, but Louis notices how he sneaks curious glances at them every few seconds.

“Did you already eat then?” Jack asks lowly, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to Louis' lips.

“A bit, yeah,” Louis whispers back. “But if you haven't, we could go out. If you want.”

Jack hums, sliding his hand down from the small of Louis' back to lightly squeeze his bum. “Think there's a different kind of eating out I'd rather do,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Louis to hear. Zayn is only a few steps away, though, and Louis definitely wouldn't doubt that he heard. He doesn't care, though, pressing up against Jack's chest.

“That one,” he answers, nodding against his lips. “Definitely that one.”

With that, Jack lifts him up in one movement, squeezing his arse and carrying him out of the room. “It was nice to see you, Zayn,” he calls over his shoulder, then hauls Louis into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.

The nice thing about Jack is that it's easy. They've done this enough to sort of know each other's preferences, to be comfortable with each other. So when Louis spreads his legs and lets Jack lick his way down between them, it's not quite as awkward as it would be with a stranger.

Two orgasms later, Louis cuddles up against the man, shivering when he feels fingertips tracing down his spine.

“Stay?” He asks quietly, his voice rough.

Jack doesn't answer, just pulls Louis closer and relaxes into the pillows.

* * *

He gets into a bit of a pattern from then on. Work, writing with Liam, fucking Jack, hanging out with Zayn and Niall, who still seem really tentative with each other. (Louis finds out one rare night when it's just Zayn and him that they still haven't fucked for real because he's worried Niall will suddenly realise he's with a dude and run off. Louis smacks him for this and tells him to stop being an idiot.)

Maybe it isn't the ideal situation, but it's pretty good anyway. Jack always stays the night, keeps Louis warm, kisses him goodbye in the morning. When Louis goes to his, Jack texts to make sure he's gotten home safely. It's not a relationship but it's enough to ease some of Louis' loneliness.

But when he goes to Liam's, the words he writes aren't about Jack. They're not about anything except falling in love in the backseat of a shitty car, about hope and fearlessness and the most beautiful boy he's ever seen. And, eventually, about all of it crashing down around him, about sitting alone in his car at that park and letting his heart bleed dry, listening to the CD Harry had left behind.

Liam gives him concerned looks on those nights and Louis goes onto the balcony alone to dull the pain.

He never actually asks, but he really doesn't have to. The whole story is written out on the pages scattering across his floor. As he quietly strums his guitar, he sings Louis' story, from beginning to abrupt end.

And it's fine.

* * *

Three weeks later, Niall is at theirs and Jack is coming over, so Louis decides to do it up right and makes dinner for all of them. He manages not to overcook the pasta and, while the chicken isn't so lucky, he decides to call it “blackened” and say he did it on purpose.

When Jack arrives, Louis opens the door, kissing him hello, then beckons him inside, walking back to where he's cutting up tomatoes for a salad. As he does, he feels the man's body press up against his back, kissing his neck and looking over his shoulder.

“Am I interrupting something? Looks fancy,” he murmurs, lips moving to Louis' ear and tongue flicking out over the shell of it.

“No, idiot,” Louis answers, shuddering when Jack takes his earlobe between his teeth, biting gently. “We're having dinner. You and I and Zayn and Niall.”

He picks up the pile of cut tomatoes with his hands and drops them on top of the lettuce, deciding that lettuce and tomatoes is enough to call it a salad. Jack has stepped back, but Louis just picks up the salad bowl and gives him a smile as he takes it to the table.

As they eat, Zayn makes a face as he chews the admittedly dry chicken, but Niall is kind enough to tell him it's seasoned well and Louis decides in that moment that he prefers Niall. Jack is quiet, but he's sort of new to this, actually hanging out with Louis' friends, so he figures that's normal. He drops his hand onto the man's knee and squeezes it, then goes back to asking Niall about the football game he'd missed while he was at work.

After dinner, Louis drags Jack into his bedroom and pulls his cock out, giving him a grateful blowjob for enduring the evening, getting himself off in the process. When they've both finished, they fall together on the bed and Jack draws abstract shapes into Louis' skin with his fingertips, silent for a long time. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice quiet.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

Louis hums and turns toward him with a sated smile. “Shoot.”

He looks nervous, though, staring at where his fingers slide over the curve of Louis' hip, the touch so soft it almost tickles. “I don't know how to ask this without sounding like a massive prick,” he says, wincing. “I mean, I _am_ a massive prick for asking, I know-”

“Jack?” Lous interrupts softly, lifting a hand to his chin and nudging it up until he looks Louis in the eye. He's afraid of what's coming, wondering if it's something about his past or maybe even something about the sex, but he'd rather he just come out and ask it, whatever it is. “Just ask.”

Jack nods, taking a deep breath. “I really like what we're doing here, I do,” he says, gaze flicking across Louis' face before landing on his eyes again. “But could we not do the whole- the home-cooked meal, double date thing again?”

Louis' face falls at his request and Jack is quick to go on.

“It's just that that's not what this is, you know? Like, I'm happy to grab dinner with you sometimes, but that was a little too couple-y for me.” He exhales a sigh, curling his fingers around Louis' hip. “I'd just rather keep this simple. No strings, no complications.”

Louis is about to open his mouth to explain that it wasn't a _double date_ \- he doesn't even think _Zayn and Niall_ are official yet- but he stops himself, realising that maybe it was.

Maybe he was trying to create a relationship out of meaningless sex because he's so fucking _lonely_ and so fucking tired of writing love songs for a boy who doesn't even exist to him anymore that he made this into more than it really was in his head.

He sits up like a bolt, dropping his head into his hands, humiliated.

“You should just go,” he mumbles, his skin on fire. “Just go, fuck, just leave please.”

His hands shake as Jack silently gets out of bed and starts pulling on his clothes. He tries to stay absolutely still, worried that he'll start crying if he moves a muscle, but Jack leans down and touches his arm gently once he's dressed.

“Babe, I didn't- I'm sorry, I didn't know it was like that for you,” he says regretfully, thumb stroking over Louis' skin.

“Please just go,” Louis begs behind his hands, quickly losing the battle to stay still, to not fall apart.

As soon as he hears the door click, tears spring to his eyes and he scrubs at his face, in disbelief that they're not even for the man walking out of his flat.

Because it's _not like that_ for Louis, it never was with Jack. He tried to make something out of nothing, tried to convince himself that he could have something real.

But he's still only ever figured out how to love one person.

And that's so fucked up Louis can barely breathe.

* * *

The next day, he tells Liam he's done writing. He can use anything he wants, but he doesn't want to do any more. He's said all he needs to say.

* * *

Between songwriting and Jack and Niall and work, Louis hasn't been alone with Zayn in what feels like forever. With two of those things out of the picture now, they finally have an evening in, just the two of them, and Louis might have needed it.

Of course, Zayn spends most of it talking about Niall, but that's fine. Louis can ignore the empty, aching feeling in his chest for a little while to be happy for Zayn.

“I like that we're going slow,” Zayn says, his fingers absently carding through Louis' hair where his head is resting on his lap. “Even after we started, like, hooking up, I was still so worried that it wasn't what he really wanted. But he explained to me he wouldn't have come back when I started avoiding him if he wasn't sure.”

Louis smiles against Zayn's thigh, nodding and letting him talk.

“And I don't know why I was so worried about the whole gay or straight thing. I should've known he'd be as laid back about that as he is with everything else.”

Louis grunts out a little noise as if to say _I told you so_. He does enjoy being right.

“I know, I know,” Zayn says, laughing a little, his fingers twisting into Louis' hair. He's quiet for a long while and Louis closes his eyes, enjoying the feeling of his hair being played with. Finally, Zayn speaks again, softer now. “Have you ever been in love?”

Louis' stomach instantly twists with anxiety at the question. He's never really told Zayn about Harry. It's basically the only thing he's ever kept quiet about. He swallows thickly, not opening his eyes. “Afraid so,” he answers, trying not to show what the subject does to him.

“I haven't, I don't think. Or maybe I have. I don't know,” he rambles quietly. “But, like, when I'm with Niall it's just- it's like I never want to stop looking at him. And when I make him laugh? There's nothing like it, you know?” He stops, sighing, and his fingers still in Louis' hair. “Shit, sorry, I'm being soppy again. We can talk about something else.”

Louis turns onto his side so he's facing away from Zayn, keeping his head resting on the boy's thigh. He ignores the lump in his throat and the fluttering of his stomach and tries to keep Zayn and Niall in his mind instead of remembering that feeling, the one that makes you feel stronger than anyone else in the world when you've made the person you love- your favourite person- laugh.

“No, it's okay,” he replies thickly, hoping Zayn can't hear the emotion. “Tell me your love story.” He'd like to hear one that doesn't have an unhappy ending.

So Zayn talks and talks, telling him about how sometimes they just lie in bed together and smile at each other, tracing the points of each other's bodies with their thumbs. About how, the most recent time they went to a club, a girl started chatting Niall up and he just smiled, pulling Zayn in by the waist as she talked, then told her it was nice to meet her but that he owed someone a dance. He pulled Zayn onto the dance floor without a care, curling around him as they moved together.

Zayn tells Louis that they finally fucked and how perfect Niall felt, how their bodies just slid together. He tells him about the butterflies, how he forgot to breathe for a moment when Niall looked up at him with bright blue eyes, lifted his fingers to Zayn's temple and told him it felt good, it was good.

Louis curls in on himself, squeezing his eyes tight, and stops listening then. Later, when his heartbeat has slowed to a reasonable rate and Zayn has tapered off, he takes a deep breath and sits up, leaning over the side of the sofa to grab his bowl and stash of pot.

“So where's Jack been?” Zayn asks with a forced casualness that Louis sees right through. “I was surprised to see him around again.”

The last time Louis had parted ways with Jack, he swore it would be the end of it. It had ended amicably enough when Jack started seeing someone else, but Louis was tired of being a back-up plan. So, he'd said it was over and moved on.

Louis doesn't know how to explain that he just needed something more than a quick fuck with a stranger. He doesn't know how to admit that he's lonely without sounding pathetic and without making Zayn feel guilty for having someone.

“He's good in bed,” he says instead, shrugging as he tips a bit of pot into the bowl, tamping it down. “But I'm quite sure this was the last time for real.” His mind flashes back to holding back tears as Jack got dressed and he knows without a doubt that he won't be back.

He takes a hit from the pipe, then another, then offers it to Zayn, who slowly takes it, eyeing Louis curiously.

“You okay?” He asks, holding the bowl idly in his hands, trying to mask the concern in his expression, but failing.

Louis flashes him a cheesy smile. “Amazing, mate.”

As Zayn gives him a small smile, then takes his own hit off the pipe, Louis thinks about being eighteen and whispering his dreams in the back of his car, about the fairy tale he'd written in his head.

Turns out he became a pretty good actor after all.

* * *

That weekend, he drops a customer off at a hotel with a familiar name. When he remembers where he knows it from, he parks his taxi and walks in, going straight up to the desk.

“How can I help you?” the woman greets with a bright smile.

Louis glances around, then steps closer. “You have live entertainment, right?”

“We do,” she answers cheerfully, gesturing to her left toward a set of wooden doors. “In our lounge, we have live music every Friday and Saturday night. There's someone playing now, if you'd like to watch.”

Louis nods and thanks her, stepping back and turning toward the lounge. It won't be Harry, he knows it, but with each step he takes, he grows more and more antsy. By the time he's reached the doors, he's convinced himself it _will_ be him, that Louis will step inside and see him up on the stage. He'll hear his voice again.

He opens the door with a shaky hand, but when he does, he hears a woman's voice and his heart sinks. Glancing at the stage, he doesn't see Harry anywhere, but maybe he does still play and it's his night off. Maybe he'll go on later. Maybe.

He moves toward the bar, leaning over the counter and getting the attention of the bartender.

“What can I get you?” He asks, setting a paper napkin down in front of Louis.

“No, no,” Louis says, shaking his head. “I was just wondering if you could tell me- does Harry Styles still perform here?”

His skin is burning and his hands are still shaking, but the man shakes his head. “Harry, no, he gave it up. Decided not to perform anymore. Good lad, though.”

Louis' stomach flips uncomfortably at the thought of him giving up. It seems so unlike Harry. “How long ago?”

The bartender gives him a funny expression, but answers anyway. “Couple of months now, I'd say. Give or take.”

Louis thanks him, then leaves, walking out of the hotel and toward his taxi as he does the maths in his head. When he saw Harry that night, he said he still sang. And that couldn't have been much more than two months ago.

Which means Harry gave up on his dreams right after he saw Louis again. And even though he's sure he played no part in Harry's decision, it makes him feel a bit sick.

* * *

As the weeks pass, Louis slowly gets back to his life before a chance meeting in his taxi with a boy he once knew so well. He doesn't forget entirely, but he stops having breakdowns over the past, stops feeling the pain of it so sharply.

He watches Zayn fall in love and he can watch Niall love him back without feeling his lungs constrict until he has to look away and force himself to breathe. He forgets about the words he scribbled in Liam's flat when he was buried so deep in his memories that he forgot how long ago those things actually happened.

He forgets he ever wrote anything until Liam stops by their flat one night with a stack of papers, handing them to Louis and telling him to look them over, then be at the office of the record label Monday to meet with them to discuss royalties.

Louis just stares blankly at the forms, in disbelief that this is real, that Liam is actually using the stuff he'd written. When his friend leaves, he skims over the words on the page, not understanding most of it. It's not like he really cares anyway and he trusts Liam. So he drops the papers on the counter and forgets about them until Monday.

The meeting is a blur and Louis barely says two words before he's signing a royalty agreement that will earn him sixty percent of the songwriting commission on the album and any singles released. He'd been fine going fifty-fifty, but Liam had insisted that Louis get a higher share, saying more of the words were his.

Louis doesn't even know what the songs ended up sounding like, hasn't heard any of it aside from the tinkering around they did in Liam's flat.

When they leave the building and Louis goes to say goodbye to Liam, he's pulled into a hug, the lad burying his face in Louis' neck.

“Thank you so much, Lou,” he says heavily, squeezing him tight. “I can't ever thank you enough.”

Louis rolls his eyes because, honestly, he didn't do anything Liam couldn't have done himself eventually. “Shut up, Li,” he replies, squeezing him back anyway.

“No, seriously, if this- I mean, it probably won't be, but if this album is successful, you have to keep going. You're _good_ , Lou.”

Liam pulls back to look into his eyes and Louis shakes his head to himself, looking down. “I only had one thing to write about and I did it. I don't have anything else.”

Liam hesitates, lifting a hand under Louis' chin and nudging it up until their eyes meet again. “Then find something else to write about,” he says quietly, fiercely serious.

Louis swallows, looking into his mate's eyes, then nods. Because he has to, he knows he does. Even if he never writes again, he has to find _something_ else that makes him feel so strongly, strongly enough to write an entire album about it.

The problem is that he doesn't really know where to start.

* * *

Liam gives him a CD of the rough cut of the album. Then he gives him the final version shortly before it's released. He's been on radio and TV, promoting it constantly, and a buzz is actually starting to grow. Louis pays no attention aside from generally being a supportive friend. He doesn't listen to the CDs Liam gives him, just sticks them in a drawer and tries not to think about the fact that people are going to hear it and see his name in the credits.

He doesn't listen to any of it until he's driving a young couple to Regent's Park on a sunny day and he hears his friend's voice on the radio, singing Louis' words over simple acoustic guitar and barely-there percussion.

His instinct is to change it, but the girl in the back speaks up. “Oh, I love this song. Can you turn it up?” She smiles and snuggles closer to the man next to her.

Louis swallows hard and turns the volume up a bit, staring hard at the road and trying not to listen to the words. It's hard, though, considering he's the one who put them together.

He goes home that night and listens to the album, from beginning to end, sitting in the corner of his bedroom and taking hit after hit from a spliff he'd rolled with shaking fingers.

It's overwhelming, hearing it all in one go, but it's the only way he knows how to deal with it. He opens the booklet as the last song fades out and he scans the credits for his name, finding it printed under every song title. Then he sees his name again out of the corner of his eye and sweeps his gaze across to the next page.

_First and foremost, I have to thank Louis Tomlinson. Thank you for sharing your story with me and for letting me share it with everyone else. I know it wasn't easy sometimes. I know it hurt. But I'm proud of you for doing it anyway, for writing such honest words and graciously handing them over to me. Like I told you already, I'll never thank you enough for what you did for me._

_You'll find something else to write about. I don't doubt that you will._

Louis feels foolish for getting so emotional, but between the music and the pot, his eyes are wet, tiny tears escaping from the corners and streaking down his skin. He wipes them away with the back of his hand and goes to shut the booklet when the next mention in Liam's thank you's catches his eye.

_Second, I'd like to thank the person who these songs are about. If you hear them and realise they're for you... you're the reason I have such an amazing album and for that I'm grateful, but you should know what a truly massive mistake you made. You don't experience something like the love described in these songs and let it slip away. You just don't._

Louis takes a deep breath and drops the booklet to the floor, tucking his knees up and burying his face in them.

That's that, then, he tells himself. That's the end of that story.

Time to write a new one.

* * *

 

* * *

 “Be careful with that!” Zayn practically shrieks as Niall bumps into the wall with a big painting from Zayn's bedroom.

Niall doesn't even look sheepish, shrugging his shoulders and continuing out of the flat. Zayn runs a hand over the scruff on his face, his hair pointing up in strange directions from tugging on it all morning.

“Relax,” Louis urges, running a hand down his back. “Jesus, knew you shouldn't have quit smoking.”

“Are you _sure_ you're okay with me leaving?” Zayn asks, spinning to look Louis in the eye. “I mean, I know you've got all sorts of money now, but, like, are you _sure_?”

Louis gives him a sad smile, combing through his mess of hair with his fingers. “Are _you_ sure?” He asks softly, giving Zayn an opportunity to back out just in case he needs it.

But Zayn's features soften for the first time all day, a warm smile lighting up in his eyes. “Yeah, I am,” he says without pause. “To live with him, I mean, I'm so ready. It's just that it's been- fuck, it's been forever, you know? You and me.”

Louis smiles sadly again and pulls him into a hug. “Best fucking forever I've ever experienced,” he mumbles, holding Zayn tightly. “But it's time for us to move on, yeah?”

Louis wishes he could follow his own advice. He keeps telling himself that it's okay to be alone, that being in a relationship isn't necessary to be happy. The problem is, he _wants_ it. He still remembers how it felt to be in love and be loved back and he wants to feel that again.

It's been five months since Liam's album was released and it's been more successful than either of them thought it would be. Aside from the royalty checks he's been getting, he's actually had artists contacting him, asking if he'd like to work with them. It's fucking wild and intimidating, but he feels good. Better. He's living his life and he's not driving a taxi anymore and things are generally looking up.

It's all great except for when he goes to bed alone and wakes up alone and forces himself not to wonder what it would be like to have someone to share it with.

“I love you,” Zayn says, holding onto him tightly, his face buried in Louis' neck. “I'll be around, you know? Phone call away and all that.”

Louis swallows heavily and gives himself a moment to hold his best mate. There won't be any more late night cuddles on the couch. Louis won't be able to slip into Zayn's bed when he's drunk and sad. He'll have to manage on his own from here on out and he draws the moment out as long as he can.

“Love you, too,” he says roughly when he knows it's time to let him go, pulling out of the hug. “Keep your phone on.”

He gives Zayn one last smile and a light punch on the arm. Niall is waiting in the doorway and Louis knows he should look away, but he watches as Zayn grabs the last duffel bag full of his stuff, hiking it over his shoulder, and walks over to his boyfriend.

“Ready?” Niall asks, his eyes bright with excitement and so much love that it makes Louis' heart seize up.

“Yeah,” Zayn answers softly, leaning in to kiss him. “Yeah, ready.”

Niall smiles, hesitating for a moment, then reaches for Zayn's hand. “Let's go home, then.”

Louis looks away in case Zayn takes one more look back, not wanting him to see how much it hurts. It's not fair to show Zayn that, to make him feel anything but thrilled that he's happy and in love and he has someone who looks at him like he's the best person in the world.

Long after he's gone, Louis sits in silence on the couch, looking around at the flat full of memories, good and bad, and wondering when he'll say goodbye to it himself.

* * *

Louis is heading home from another meeting with the record label to talk about what's next. They told Louis to write some stuff and send it over and they'd look at shopping around some demos. It's great and exciting, but Louis still doesn't feel like he's found anything else to write about.

He's in a taxi for the first time in a long time and the view from the backseat is so different. He watches the houses pass by and wonders what he can do, what kind of inspiration he can find that will make him feel like he has something to say.

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can even think about it, staring out the window. “Sixteen Parkside Lane. Take me there.”

The driver turns wordlessly, heading north toward the house Louis still remembers. When they pull up to the gate, Louis sits in the car and stares, already feeling nervous excitement course through him. It's bloody stupid, being here. There's no reason for it except that Louis suddenly desperately needs to see Harry's face, even if it means making a complete fool of himself.

The taxi driver waits patiently, glancing into the rearview mirror, then looking away. The meter's still running, anyway, and Louis is probably being a nuisance, but he sits and looks for a long moment anyway, until he gathers all of his courage.

“Don't leave,” Louis says before he hops out of the car. The gate is open so he walks past it, up to the front door, the sun shining down on his back.

His heart races, beating heavily in his chest.

He rings the doorbell, then stands back, trying not to panic at the thought of seeing Harry's face. It's not until he hears footsteps approaching that he realises he has absolutely no idea what he's going to say. There's no fucking reason for him to be here and, oh fuck, he's probably married and he might even have _kids_ and _shit shit shit_ this was a bad idea.

The door opens and Louis isn't sure if he's relieved or not that it's not Harry. It's a man a few years older than himself, attractive even with his slightly receding hairline.

“Hello,” he says curiously, looking down at Louis on his doorstep. “Can I help you?”

Louis thinks about just turning around and running, but he's here. He may as well see it through. “Yeah, hi, sorry,” he says sheepishly, guilt rising in his chest as he talks to the man who is probably Harry's husband. _I wrote a dozen love songs for your husband,_ he can't help but think. “I was just wondering if Harry's here? Harry Styles? I think this is his house?”

He sounds like a world class idiot and he keeps expecting Harry to walk up behind the man in front of him or call from down the hall, asking who it is. But the house behind him is silent.

“It was,” the man says carefully, eyeing Louis up. “Sorry, who are you?”

 _It was._ It was?

“Louis. Louis Tomlinson. I was- well, Harry and I were close in secondary school.”

The man keeps studying him suspiciously and Louis realises this is where he should thank him and leave. It's just that his feet seem to be stuck and he's not sure his knees won't give out if he tries to take a step.

Finally, the man speaks again. “Yeah, he mentioned you once,” he says slowly. “Anyway, he moved out a few months ago. I've got his new address here somewhere.”

Louis is still rooted to his spot as the man steps off to the side and rifles through sheets of paper in a cabinet. He's torn between the flutter in his stomach at the thought of Harry mentioning him and the ache in his chest that it only happened once.

Then again, he never really talked about Harry to his mates in London.

“Here,” the man says, turning back to the door with a piece of paper, an address scrawled on it. “That's where he lives now.”

Louis takes the paper, wanting to ask so many questions, but he just smiles, nods, and thanks the man before turning away, back to the taxi. He knows it wouldn't be his place to ask a stranger who the only love of his life has become, what kind of person he is now.

There's only one person he can ask. And now he knows just where to look.

* * *

He doesn't hold the taxi this time, handing over double the fare and cringing at himself for being one of those people he always hated. But he's not one of those people, not really. He's not giving a ridiculous tip to flash his money around, he's doing it because it might allow the driver to go home a little earlier, maybe spend an extra hour with his family. He's sure it's different, even if the driver doesn't realise that.

When he gets out of the car, he stares up at the several-story-tall brick building in front of him, glancing down at the paper in his hands to read the flat number, 504.

Inside the door, there's a panel of buttons for each flat, each with a last name next to it. He swallows when he sees _Styles_ next to the _504_ button and forces his hand up to press the button. His fingers are shaking and he forces himself to take a deep breath as he waits.

He can't think too long about any of this or he'll back out.

The buzzer goes and the door unlocks and Louis tries not to think about what that means as he opens in and walks inside. He tries not to think of Harry in his flat, buzzing him up. He tries not to think about the fact that he hadn't even asked who it was over the intercom.

Maybe he hasn't changed so much after all, letting anyone and everyone in.

He takes the elevator to the fifth floor and walks on shaky legs down the hall, stopping in front of the door marked 504. He stares at the numbers for a minute, then closes his eyes and brings up the memory of Harry's face, eighteen and innocent, then twenty-six and worn down. He has no idea what he's about to see as he lifts his hand to knock on the door.

“Come on in,” he hears the familiar voice call, rougher than when he was eighteen, but brighter than the voice he heard in the back of his taxi last year.

Louis isn't sure what to do, looking side to side down the empty hallway before grasping the handle and pushing the door open slowly. He only opens it a bit, just enough to speak through the opening.

“Hello?” He calls timidly, feeling off balance and anxious. “Harry? Erm, Harry Styles?”

He hears a clatter in the kitchen, then footsteps approaching. Before he can ground himself, the door is opening completely and Harry is standing in front of him, face scrunched in confusion, then falling in surprise when he sees Louis.

He doesn't say anything, neither of them do for a long moment, just staring at each other from opposite sides of the threshold. Harry looks older than he had nine years ago, hair pushed back from his face in messy waves rather than the bouncy curls he'd had falling over his forehead back then. He's taller and broader, wearing a loose t-shirt and tight trousers that beg Louis' attention away from the same green eyes staring back at him.

He looks older than the boy who left Louis alone in the back of his car so long ago, but he looks younger than the Harry standing at the side of the road last year, head hung in the rain.

“I was expecting my mate,” Harry finally says slowly, shaking his head like he can't believe what he's seeing. “Hi.”

Louis lets out a long exhale, somehow feeling less nervous now. It's still a lot, but he feels like he knows this Harry better than the one from last year. Or, at least, like he could figure him out.

“Hi,” Louis replies. “Sorry to just show up.”

“Yeah, I-” Harry starts, head tilting in confusion, then shakes himself again, stepping aside. “Come in, come in. Just, how'd you know where I live?”

Louis hopes he's not blushing as he steps into the flat carefully, sticking close to the doorway as Harry shuts the door. “I remembered the address you gave me last time I saw you. A man there gave me your new address,” he explains, cringing. “I'm sorry if that's not okay.”

Harry looks thoughtful as he slowly shakes his head. “No, it's okay. Might have to have a word with him about giving my address out to random blokes who show up on his doorstep, but I'm glad he gave it to you.”

Louis feels a pang of hurt at the word _random_. Maybe that's really what he is after all this time. “I told him who I was,” he explains, quieter now. “He said you'd mentioned me once, so I figured that's why he did.”

“Oh,” Harry says, tilting his head again. “Oh, that makes sense then.”

Louis nods and looks down between them, not sure what to say now. He still doesn't know why he's here, really, or what he wants to say. He was hoping he'd know once he saw Harry's face, but it hasn't come to him yet. He just knows it feels good to be standing in front of him again, even if it's awkward and, deep inside, a little bit painful.

“I could make us tea,” Harry offers, drawing Louis' gaze up from the floor. “We could finally catch up?”

Louis breathes out, nodding. “If I'm not intruding. You said you were expecting company?”

Harry relaxes a little, turning toward the kitchen as he replies. “No, my mate, Nick, he's just picking something up,” he says, looking back and nudging his head for Louis to follow.

Louis finally looks around as he follows Harry into the kitchen. The flat seems fairly small, nothing like the house Louis had dropped him off at last time. It's well-kept, though, tidy and decorated simply. Louis likes it already, almost feels more comfortable in this space than his own flat, which feels grey and sad, with an empty bedroom now collecting dust.

As Harry puts the kettle on, he keeps glancing at Louis out of the corner of his eye, watching him stand in the doorway and look around.

“Not that I mind,” he says slowly, that same cadence in his voice that Louis used to tease so often, “but what brings you round?”

Louis bites his lip and focuses on Harry, watching him lean back against the counter as the water heats up. He has the insane urge to hug him, to hold him in his arms just to see if he feels the same there.

“I don't really know,” he answers honestly, because he's not sure what else to say. It sounds pathetic to his own ears.

Harry nods, anyway, seeming to understand better than Louis himself. He opens his mouth to respond, but he's cut off by a loud buzzer sounding out. With an apologetic smile, he walks back to the front door, hitting a button beside it to, presumably, let his mate into the building.

“Nick's a friend I made while I was doing gigs at a hotel,” he explains, shuffling around in the other room, apparently looking for something. Louis can see him through the cutout in the wall separating the two rooms. “He used to DJ special events there, but he's in radio, too. Anyway, I was at a shop yesterday and I found an old record I knew he'd been looking for so that's what he's here for.”

Louis watches as Harry pops around the corner, his cheeks flushed. “Sorry, I'm rambling. Sorry.”

It's then that Louis realises that Harry's nervous, too. He's nervous about Louis standing in his kitchen after so long and he's showing it the same way he did when he was a teenager, by not shutting up.

“It's okay,” Louis replies, giving him a small smile that he hopes conveys that he's referring to the rambling as well as the nerves.

Harry bites his lip, but then there's a knock on the door and he nods, turning away to answer it.

“Hiya, Harold,” Louis hears a new voice greet.

Just then, the kettle starts to sound and Louis tends to it, glad to have a distraction to keep him from eavesdropping. As Louis shuts off the kettle, he wonders if it would be too forward of him to search through the cabinets for cups, ultimately deciding it would be best to wait. He's already nicked Harry's address off of a stranger and shown up at his doorstep. Probably best to keep the snooping to a minimum.

“Nick, this is my old, uh- from secondary school, this is Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, pulling Nick into the kitchen.

Louis turns away from the kettle and looks up at the tall, lanky man, a carefree smile painted on his face. The smile twists thoughtfully as he sticks out his hand.

“Louis Tomlinson, where do I know that name from?” He asks as Louis offers his own hand to shake.

Harry's brow furrows in confusion as he turns to Louis, as if he knows. Which he doesn't. He's definitely never met this bloke before, he's sure he'd remember. Unless he was very stoned, he supposes.

“Sorry, I don't know,” Louis says apologetically as they end the handshake and Louis stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets.

“Oh, fuck,” Nick says suddenly, his thoughtful expression breaking. “Are you the one who wrote Liam Payne's album?”

Louis' blush spreads quickly, his face growing hot. He forgets how popular that stupid record has been, how popular Liam's become. And if Nick is in radio, it makes sense that he knows about it. “Oh, yeah,” he answers, coughing to clear his throat. “Yeah, afraid that's me.”

Harry seems confused next to them, but Nick is studying Louis now, not quite as thoughtful, but like he's already figured it out. “You said you two dated in secondary school?” Nick asks, addressing Harry even as he studies Louis, an understanding smile blooming over his lips.

Harry didn't say that, no, but he nods anyway, answering softly. “Yeah, we did.”

“Ah,” Nick finally says, nodding. “Alright, well, I suppose you two have got a lot to catch up on. Better get out of your way.” He takes a step back, but gives Louis another bright smile. “It was really nice to meet you, Louis. That album's fantastic, can't wait to hear more from you.”

Louis tries to give a grateful smile, but he still feels hot with Harry glancing curiously between them. Harry and Nick share a quick goodbye at the door, then Harry's back in the kitchen, silently opening a cabinet to grab two mugs.

“Still take it black?” He asks as he pours the tea.

Louis feels something inside him flip when he realises that Harry still remembers how he used to take his tea. Even though he usually adds a splash of milk these days, he nods and says, “yeah, black's good.”

They settle on the sofa in the small living room and Louis takes a slow sip of hot tea, not sure what to say to break the awkwardness. He knows Harry feels it, too, but he's not sure where to start. Luckily, Harry is the first to speak.

“So, you write?”

Louis wants to look at him so much, wants to keep looking at him because it's been so long _without_ looking at him, but he can't force his gaze up from his tea. “Just once so far. My mate, Liam, he- it just sort of worked out that I helped write his album. I'm supposed to work on some new stuff, but I'm not sure where to start.”

“I've heard of him, Liam Payne,” Harry replies. “Saw him on telly once. Never heard any of his music, but I suppose I'll have to buy his album now.”

Louis closes his eyes, trying not to think about Harry listening to it and realising, now that he knows that Louis wrote it, exactly what it's about. It's too specific, too detailed to be about anything else. He'll know and he might look at Liam's thank you's and it's too much.

But at least Louis won't be there for it.

He looks up, finally, finding Harry's eyes and smiling at how familiar it all feels. “You seem happier,” he says softly, hoping it's not rude to say. “Last time, I barely even recognised you.”

Harry doesn't look away, giving him a sad smile in return. “A lot was going on then,” he explains with a heavy exhale. “My marriage was on the brink of failure, just like everything else, and I was realising how nothing had worked out the way I'd wanted.”

Louis nods as it's confirmed for him, that Harry had been married. He wonders what happened, how they met and where it went wrong, but he doesn't want to know. Not now.

“I'm glad things are better for you now,” he says instead, the words so sincere they almost hurt. “I've always hoped that you're happy.” He fights against the urge to drop his gaze, staring into Harry's eyes. He can leave after this and write a new album about humiliation and regret, but in this moment, he needs to be honest. “I've _always_ wanted you to be happy, ever since I met you.”

Harry's expression turns shy, a slight blush appearing on his cheeks even as he tries to play it cool. He coughs once, glancing away before he turns back to Louis. “You've thought about me?” He asks quietly. “I always wondered if you still remembered me.”

 _Buy the album,_ Louis thinks. “Always did,” he answers, swallowing thickly.

Harry tries to hide his grin behind his teacup, but he beams at Louis' answer and it makes Louis feel warm inside, more comfortable. It almost feels like he knows him, even so much time later. He knows that's ridiculous, that he can't possibly know him now, but it doesn't stop him from relaxing at the thought.

They talk for a long time, telling each other about their lives over the past decade or so, what they've done and where they are now. Louis tries to keep the topic on Harry, embarrassed by how little he has to say about himself, but Harry seems to avoid talking about things, too. It's okay, though, because Louis doesn't want to know any of the bad stuff. Not today, not right now.

“Remember that old car of yours?” Harry asks when their conversation tapers off, having run out of things they can say to each other. “God, we spent so much time in it.”

Louis blushes at the memory because, even if they did just about everything in that car, the memories always flash to Harry between his legs, his big, bright eyes looking up at Louis as he taught himself how to give a blowjob or Louis fucking him into the leather seats. Or, the few times they got stoned, just bringing each other off with their hands and staring into each other's eyes unwaveringly.

“I remember it,” Louis answers, hoping it's not showing, the things he's thinking.

When he looks up, he can see the darker shade of Harry's skin, the way he bites down on his bottom lip then lets his mouth part just a little, eyes faraway in thought. Louis watches as he swallows hard, then tears himself back to the present, and he wonders if Harry's thoughts look something like his own.

Louis can feel the thump of his heart as he looks at Harry, their memories right there with them, as if they were never really so far off. Harry has changed, but he's still the same person under those changes. Louis still recognises him, like if he went back to the house he grew up in and found it remodeled. It would still feel something like home.

“I'm glad you came,” Harry finally says, the silence of the room punctuated by the ticking of a clock nearby.

Louis nods dumbly, his fingers trembling against his teacup. “Me too,” he replies honestly. _And now I don't want to leave,_ he adds silently in his head.

They're silent for another long moment and, even after nine years of silence, it feels like they've said all they really need to say.

Louis' stomach flips when Harry leans over to take his teacup out of his hands. Louis lets him take it, breathing shallowly and waiting as Harry stares at him. He's nervous, Louis can tell, but of course he is. It's been so long and it's too much and Louis feels desire curling in his belly, wants to see if he feels the same, tastes the same, sounds the same.

“I, uh-” Harry says, finally flicking his gaze away. “I'll top you up,” he finishes, lifting the cup and standing from the sofa, scurrying into the kitchen.

Louis deflates in an instant, leaving him disappointed and shaky. He knows it's not a good idea, but he's made so fucking many bad decisions in his life that his scale of what's good and bad is a little off. He wants it, more than he's wanted anything in a long time. It sends a thrill up his spine as he stands, deciding that, good or bad, this is a moment he could write about. He feels stronger about this than anything else in his shitty life and he lets that feeling carry him into the kitchen, where Harry's back is to him, hunched over the counter.

“Harry,” he says, not letting his nerves get the best of him this time.

Harry turns quickly, staring at Louis with that same expression, parted lips and pink-tinted skin. He looks amazing and Louis' chest clenches just from that.

He walks closer and sees the way Harry's breath stutters in his chest. Louis is too far gone, needs it like mad, knows now that he's been needing it for months, maybe even years.

“God,” he breathes out when he's close, then reaches up to curl his hand around the back of his neck, dragging him down.

He's so _tall_ now, fuck.

Harry doesn't need to be talked through it, clearly as wrapped up in the moment as Louis is. As Louis pulls him down, Harry wraps his arms around his back, splaying his large hands over Louis' t-shirt, pressing their chests together.

Louis chokes back a sob of relief when their mouths press together, desperate and needy, but gentle, too. It's definitely different from when they were young. The kiss is different and Harry feels different. Even at the end, right before Harry left, he was just starting to pass Louis in height, but he was never filled out like this. He was never so sturdy, so strong.

Louis' head spins as he parts his mouth, feeling a hot tongue swipe over his bottom lip. With that encouragement, he presses in hard, fingers knotted in Harry's hair as he flicks his tongue against the other man's, shuddering when they touch.

Louis slants his lips against Harry's, sucking gently on his lips and feeling Harry do the same to his, the kiss soft and hard at the same time. It's fucking incredible, the best kiss Louis has had in recent memory, maybe even since the last time he kissed Harry. He feels drunk, reckless as he kisses bruises into Harry's lips, kisses him until he can't breathe anymore.

When he finally pulls away, he's panting and Harry is, too, dipping down to kiss Louis' neck between heavy, laboured breaths.

“After I saw you last year,” Harry says, his voice raspy and even lower than normal, “I got myself off, thinking about the back of your car and the things we used to do to each other there.”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling Harry's lips gliding over his skin, sucking down, kissing, and he nods, thinking of all the times he saw Harry behind his eyelids as he came into his hand. More times than he'd like to admit, honestly.

“Yeah, I've done- me too,” he stutters out as Harry's lips trace over his collarbone, tongue flicking out into the hollow above it.

Louis wants him so fucking badly, but he suddenly realises that this is not the teenager he once knew. This is a different person and he can't trick himself into thinking any differently.

“Wait,” he breathes, pulling out of Harry's embrace and taking two steps back. “Wait, fuck, we don't even _know_ each other.”

Harry's breathless, pink-cheeked and looking at Louis with a familiar expression, something like teenage lust in his eyes. “I know that,” he answers shakily. “I know it's different, I know, but that doesn't mean it can't happen.”

Louis' stomach flips with want as Harry steps closer, carefully, reaching out to touch Louis' wrist. He's thought so much about Harry over the past several months and he thought he'd moved on, but he hasn't at all. He still feels the tightness of his chest, the hurt of it, even with Harry standing right in front of him.

“We can't pretend we're teenagers again,” Louis says quietly, mostly reminding himself, but Harry should hear it, too. “We can't- we can't close our eyes and pretend we're in the back of my car on a humid summer night, you know? It's different now.”

Harry winces, sliding his hand up from Louis' wrist, over his shoulder and resting at the side of his neck. His fingers brush Louis' hair back where it's gotten shaggy, spilling over his neck. He opens his mouth once, twice, but no words come out. Then, he pulls away from Louis, stepping back, and reaches down to peel his t-shirt up over his head, tossing it aside.

Louis nearly chokes, eyes going wide as he looks at Harry, bare from the waist up. His body isn't really anything like Louis remembers, apart from the extra nipples that Louis finds immediately. But he's got hair on his chest now, thin, but visible, and he's broad and defined. And then there are the tattoos that were hidden by the shirt, black ink scattered across his skin.

“Got this one first,” he explains, lifting his arm and thumbing over the black star on the inside of it, “a few months after moving to London. I was excited and hopeful that I would make it, I would be a star.”

Louis stares, his mind blank as he traces Harry's movements.

“These were a few months later,” he goes on, bringing his hands up to the birds inked just below his collarbones. “I still felt like I could fly or something, god knows,” he says, rolling his eyes a little. “Got this a year after that,” he says, sliding a hand down to his side, indicating the falling leaf tattooed over his ribs, “when I realised how lost I was, just floating around this huge city.”

Louis bites down on his bottom lip and watches as Harry traces his fingers down to the largest of all of them, a butterfly high on his stomach. “This is the newest one,” he says, quieter now. “I read somewhere that butterflies represent change? Like, rebirth and all that?”

Louis looks up from the ink and finds Harry staring at him with an oddly shy expression for someone who's just whipped off his shirt and started telling the story painted over his skin. Louis almost smiles, realising that hasn't changed either, his comfort taking his clothes off, but he listens to Harry instead.

“I started my whole life over a few months ago. Got my own flat and a real job, gave up the gigs I used to do in favour of actually supporting myself financially.”

Louis sees a spark of disappointment in his eyes, maybe sadness. He remembers finding out that Harry had given up singing and thinking that it didn't sound like him, but now he realises. He did it because he felt like he had to, not because he didn't care anymore.

“That's what this is,” he finishes, sliding his fingers over the butterfly on his stomach. “It's a new start.”

Louis doesn't have any words to say, just flicks his gaze over Harry's body, the new marks and the hair and the muscles that he never knew. He glances up again and it's bizarre how so much can change, but still feel the same.

“I'm a different person than I was back then,” Harry says quietly, dropping his hands to his sides. “And I know you are, too. But that doesn't stop me wanting you right now.”

Louis' breath comes a little quicker after having calmed down from the feverish kiss. He looks over the body of the man- _man_ , not boy- in front of him once more before he steps forward, feeling lightheaded. He reaches a shaky hand to trace the curved lines of the butterfly's wings, listening to Harry's breath hitch as he does.

“You sure you want to fuck your ex-boyfriend in this new start?” He asks, quirking the corner of his mouth up as he looks up to meet Harry's unwavering gaze. “Seems a little counterproductive, doesn't it?”

Harry's intense stare breaks a little, a small smile forming on his lips. “Not the same,” he insists, his hands coming to Louis' waist, resting gently over his hips, like he's waiting for permission. “It's not the same,” he says again, dropping his voice as he looks down into Louis' eyes.

Louis is done with rational thinking. He was done with it when Harry's shirt came off, honestly, because all he wants is to learn this new body, find out what's different and what's the same.

He pushes his hands up over Harry's shoulders, sighing inwardly at how good it still feels to be in his arms, to have Harry pulling him closer. “This isn't why I came, you know,” he says, just in case Harry's gotten the wrong idea as to why he randomly popped by.

“Why'd you come then?” Harry asks in reply, tilting his head down to kiss Louis' temple, then his cheekbone.

Louis feels the whisper of Harry's eyelashes against his skin and he shivers, his fingers sliding up into his hair, so familiar, but so different. “Still haven't figured that out,” he answers honestly.

Harry hums his understanding and lowers further, kissing Louis' jaw. “While you're thinking about it, can we go to the bedroom? Maybe it'll come-” he pauses long enough for the pun to be understood- “to you.”

Normally Louis would walk out the door at a line like that, but it's so _Harry,_ the Harry _he knew_ , that it just makes him grin, dropping his head to chuckle into the man's neck. “You're still such an idiot,” he says, shaking his head over his laugh.

Harry laughs lightly, too, nosing at Louis' ear. When the laughter dies, he grazes his lips over the lobe and whispers against it. “Will you fuck this idiot then?”

Between the words and Harry's breath on his ear, Louis shivers and squeezes Harry tighter. “Yeah,” he answers simply, wanting it too much to be anything but straightforward.

He follows Harry down a short hall on the other side of the front door and into his bedroom. Louis spares a moment as he looks over the freshly made bed and the laundry neatly tucked into a hamper in the corner, to think of what his room would look like if Harry had just popped by his flat unannounced. He'd have to make Harry wait outside for twenty minutes while he furiously cleaned what he could.

When Louis drags his eyes back to Harry, he decides to even the scales, fingers finding the hem of his shirt and slowly dragging it up to uncover his torso. He doesn't have much to surprise Harry with, though. His body probably looks exactly the same, if a bit less defined, aside from the tiny horseshoe tattooed on the side of his hip. Zayn had bought a tattoo kit years back, thinking he might like to give that career a go, and Louis had let him draw it into his skin after a few beers.

 _I'd say you need a bit of luck_ , Zayn had said as he gave him the tattoo.

Inevitably, Zayn decided not to pursue the career, saying the gun felt a lot different in his hand than a pencil, but he continued to mark up his own skin from time to time.

“God,” Harry murmurs, stepping close again and touching his palms lightly to Louis' chest, swiping slowly down his skin. He touches Louis like he's precious, like Harry can't believe he's real, and it kicks up butterflies in Louis' stomach.

 _Change_ , Louis thinks. _Rebirth. A new fucking start._

“Can I?” Harry asks, his fingers resting at the top of Louis' trousers, thumb sliding over the fly like a question.

“Yeah,” Louis says, his throat feeling thick, the butterflies making him feel unsteady. “ _God_ , yeah, will you?”

Harry doesn't answer, his fingers already twisting at the fabric to pop open the button. Then he drops to his knees in one movement and Louis has to fight not to release a whimper. Harry still looks so young when he looks up at Louis from his knees, eyes big as he slides the zip down and peels Louis' trousers down, then drops his gaze to Louis' pants.

He's still mostly soft, but Harry doesn't seem undeterred. He brings his hands to Louis' hips and holds onto him as he leans in, lips bumping against his cock through the fabric. Louis shudders, staring down at him, wondering if Harry's really holding onto him or if he's actually holding Louis steady because his legs are starting to wobble.

“Remember when I first sucked you off?” Harry mumbles against Louis' pants, his lips moving over his slowly growing dick. “I was so bad and you were so patient with me.”

Louis lets out a short laugh, nervous energy spilling out of his chest as he thinks back to teenage Harry knelt between his legs, coughing and gagging on his cock. It was still so fucking hot, he remembers, a wave of heat rushing to his skin. It was so incredible, not just to have anyone's mouth on him, but to have _Harry's_ mouth on him, _Harry_ who he was desperately infatuated with from the moment they met.

“You weren't that bad,” Louis answers, feeling his cock stiffen now under the warm breathing spilling through his pants.

“I was,” Harry insists softly, rubbing his thumbs in circles over Louis' hips. “I was awful and you never pushed me.” He kisses the head of Louis' cock where it's starting to poke at the fabric as it grows. “I'm so glad it was you. I'm so grateful you were my first everything.”

Louis does let out a pitiful whimper at that, Harry murmuring such nice things right against his dick, things he's wanted to hear so badly for so long. His throat feels tight, but he swallows past it, lowering a trembling hand to Harry's hair, pushing it away from his face.

“Me too, you know,” he answers thickly. “So fucking glad, H.”

Harry's gaze snaps up to him at that, the nickname Louis used to use for Harry when they were younger. Louis bites down on his lip, not sure if he's done something wrong by using it again, but Harry's stare melts into a smile before he kisses Louis' cock again, then tucks his fingertips into the waistband of his pants and starts pulling down.

Louis' breath catches when his pants join his trousers at his ankles and Harry doesn't even hesitate before circling his hand around Louis' unveiled cock and sucking the head of it past his lips.

“Oh, fuck- _fuck,_ ” Louis hisses, losing his breath entirely as Harry swirls his tongue over the crown.

If he was bad at this at first, he sure as fuck isn't now, taking his time to tease the head before sliding his licked-wet lips down the shaft. Louis tries valiantly not to let out any more embarrassing noises, but after only a few bobs of his head, Harry burrows down further, letting Louis' dick push at his throat. He can't help the broken moan that spills out of him at that, can't help feeling totally overwhelmed by the feeling and the emotions and all of it.

A few seconds later, Harry pulls off and Louis is both grateful for the break and holding back a whine at the lack of warmth on his dick.

Harry doesn't say anything as he reaches past Louis, pulling a drawer out of his nightstand and coming back with what looks like a bottle of lube.

“Do you mind?” Harry asks, popping the lid. Louis doesn't even know what he's referring to, wonders if he's done using his mouth and wants to use his hand now or what. “Just- I know me and I'm not gonna want to wait.”

It's not until Harry has shucked off his jeans and pants and is smearing lube over his fingers, reaching them behind himself that he finally understands.

“ _Christ,_ ” he breathes out, watching as Harry presses a finger inside. He can only really tell from the concentration on his face and the way his mouth falls open, can't actually see it happening. “No, that's good, that's- yeah.” He sounds like an idiot, but he's shut up when Harry's mouth surrounds him again, sucking gently like he knows how worked up Louis is getting.

Louis' head falls back for a long moment, lips trembling as he breathes out through them. He can't wrap his head around this, that this is Harry sucking him off. The only boy he's ever figured out how to love.

He wonders for a fuzzy moment if he ever figured out how _not_ to love him.

He can't wrap his head around any of it, so he blanks his mind and focuses on the heat of the tongue curling around his cock, the soft, soft lips sliding over him. He gets lost in it, bringing his head forward again to watch as Harry fucks himself on his fingers, mouth stretched wide.

Luckily, it's not too long before he pulling off, breathless. “I'm ready,” he says, voice raspy and thick. “I'm so ready, Lou.”

If Louis' skin wasn't already on fire, it would be when he hears Harry's old nickname for him. It's not even that no one calls him that anymore; lots of people do, but hearing Harry say it, the comfort it brings, makes Louis flush even hotter.

“On the bed,” he says, reaching out to help Harry up. “On your back, yeah?”

Harry nods quickly, shuffling up to the bed and lying in the middle of it, stuffing a pillow under his hips. Louis' about to join him when he remembers that this _isn't_ like secondary school and they need one more thing.

“Hey, condom?” He asks because he doesn't have one himself.

Harry's face falls a bit, probably realising himself that they really _don't_ know each other that well, that so much has changed. “Oh, shit,” he mumbles, looking around. “I think- try over there,” he says uncertainly, pointing at a chest of drawers at the opposite corner from the door. “Top drawer, I think? I hope?”

Louis moves quickly to the chest and opens the top drawer, finding it filled with random things. It seems to be his junk drawer and Louis searches around until he finds a single condom. Checking the expiration date quickly, he breathes out a sigh of relief and turns, smiling.

He freezes when he sees Harry spread out and naked, fingers curled around his cock.

“Good?” He asks, bending his knees up so Louis can see everything, every little bit of him.

“Better than good,” Louis answers, almost in a daze. Crawling up onto the bed, he thinks it's definitely better than good. It's better than fucking _words_.

He manages to get the condom on and slick himself up with lube without freaking out about the fact that this is happening, it's really happening. When he's ready, he looks up and Harry is fucking beautiful, just as beautiful as he was when he was eighteen. The tattoos scattered across his skin seem to look right on him, quirky but meaningful, just like the Harry Louis knew.

As if reading his mind, Harry reaches for Louis' arm, pulling him down until Louis' hovering over him, holding himself up with one hand. “Hey, it's still me, really,” he says, voice still raspy from Louis' cock. “I know we're different and we've changed but it's still me and you, yeah?”

Louis doesn't want to let himself get carried away, thinking he really knows Harry now, but this still feels so familiar. He's not sure what _has_ changed, but maybe it's not the important stuff.

“Okay,” he whispers back, nodding and dropping down to kiss him again.

He doesn't break the kiss as he guides himself inside Harry, swallowing the gasp he releases as Louis pushes slowly, carefully in. He doesn't think anymore, knowing that his brain isn't going to be of any use to him now. He won't figure out how he got to this moment, won't figure out anything, so he concentrates on _feeling_ instead, on _doing_.

“Good?” He murmurs into the kiss, working his cock further and further inside, feeling the tightness closing in on him. He remembers doing this for the first time, remembers writing about it in Liam's flat, buzzed from beer and weed.

“Perfect, yeah,” Harry replies, hands slipping up to grip at the skin of Louis' shoulders, his neck, clinging on and kissing him messily as Louis gets completely buried. “Fuck, it's so perfect.”

Louis feels it in the pit of his stomach, feels it like everything inside of him drops, his organs collapsing in on themselves. He feels it like being seventeen and buried in his favourite boy, feels it like fucking falling in love. He feels the rush of being so close to Harry, the way it makes breathing a little harder, his head a little dizzier.

He drags his hips back, then shoves them forward, Harry slick and tight and hot around him, Harry gripping onto him and breathing out a whimper. Louis takes it all in, his senses overloaded as he fucks back in, fucks the boy he's never forgotten, the boy he's been trying to shake for months.

He could write a dozen albums, probably, about this moment. He could make a career out of fucking Harry just like this, slow and heavy and so, so desperate.

“God,” Harry breathes out, high-pitched and shaky, moving his hands to cup the sides of Louis' neck, breathing against his mouth.

Louis shifts his hips, rolling them against Harry's arse steadily, with enough force to punch a gasp out of him more times than not. He pushes himself up just enough to look at Harry's face, to take in his rosy cheeks and his wet, pink lips. His eyelids flutter open and he stares up at Louis like he's pleading with him, begging for something.

Louis wants to give it to him, wants to give him fucking everything, just like nine years ago.

He gives his own silent plea, just one thing: _don't leave again._

“I'm close,” he says instead, staring down and knowing it's possible, that they'll finish and Louis will leave and that'll be the end of it.

He wonders if they're completing some sort of circle or if they're just a dashed line, the breaks far longer than the dashes. He wonders if this is a beginning or an end.

Harry's hand reaches down to wank himself, but he never stops looking at Louis, never breaks the eye contact, even when his face is scrunched up and he's whining softly with each thrust Louis gives him. Louis holds his orgasm back, wants so badly to see Harry come. He wants to watch it on his face, wants to see if that has changed.

“Lou,” he says, and it sounds like fireworks cracking. “Lou, fuck, Lou-”

His body jerks as he comes, the hand that's still on Louis' neck sliding up to tangle into his hair. He shows it all on his face, eyes shutting tight and mouth opening in a silent moan, shuddering as Louis fucks him through it.

He slows down once Harry's finished, doesn't need much more to come himself, and he does, just a few seconds later. He comes with his forehead resting against Harry's, biting back any words that threaten to spill out because he can't filter himself now, not when his body is buzzing and his mind is too far gone. He doesn't know what might come out, so he chokes it all back, just in case.

When he's finished, he goes limp, carefully pulling out and falling next to Harry on the bed. He gets the condom off and tied, looking around for a bin or something, but Harry reaches over and lazily takes it from him.

“Doesn't matter,” he mumbles, tossing it onto the floor, then pulls Louis closer. He always was big on post-sex cuddling, which was often uncomfortable in the backseat of Louis' car.

Louis pulls his arm up and lets Harry snuggle into the crook of it, resting his head on Louis' shoulder. The sun hasn't gone down yet, but it's blazing orange through the one window in the room, the hazy light of the setting sun falling over them. It's nice. Peaceful.

“I think I figured out why I came here,” Louis says, his head still foggy from his orgasm, but clearing a bit at a time.

“Yeah?” Harry asks softly. “Why then?”

Louis wraps his arm up so his fingers can dance over Harry's shoulder, down over his bicep. He has to say it, has to ask. He has to know now that he's here because he may never have a chance again.

“Why did you leave?” He asks, his voice quiet and far too vulnerable for his liking. “Why didn't you ask me to come with you?”

He hates asking it, hates the sadness that rises in his chest with the words, but he can't leave without knowing. He realises that now, that it's a question he's never stopped asking, not in nine years.

Harry shifts under his arm, tilting his head up without pushing himself up to actually look into Louis' eyes. Louis is grateful for it, wonders if Harry remembers him that well.

“I knew you wouldn't come,” he answers, whisper-quiet. “I didn't want to ask and have you tell me no, so I purposely made my plans without you in them because I didn't want to be let down.”

Louis bites down on the inside of his cheek to make sure he doesn't ask, _what about me?_ “What makes you think I wouldn't have come with you?” He asks instead.

Harry sighs softly over his skin. “I'd drop hints,” he says hesitantly. “For a year or so beforehand, I'd drop little hints and see how you'd respond. I told you I wanted to live in London someday, in a posh flat, and you just said 'I like it here'. I told you that I heard about open auditions for a musical in London and you rolled your eyes. I just knew you wouldn't come with me and I couldn't bear to have you say that to my face.”

He does sit up, then, pulling Louis' chin down so they're eye to eye, and Louis tries not to show how badly Harry's words are cutting through him, fresh pain rising to the surface.

“I was eighteen and selfish, Louis,” he says firmly, something like pain in his eyes, too. Louis wonder if their pain matches. “I thought you were stronger than me and I let that be an excuse I used for doing the same thing to you that I was so terrified of you doing to me.”

Louis turns away, looks to the rays of warm sun filtering in through the window. He thinks back to those moments Harry had mentioned, wondering if he had only known that Harry was gauging his reaction, if his responses might have been different.

“I liked it there because you were there,” he says, inwardly cringing at the wobble of his voice. “And I rolled my eyes because I knew I'd never actually land a part in anything other than a school play. I never actually believed I'd be an actor, but I always believed in _you._ ”

Harry is still for a moment, hesitating before he drops down to kiss Louis lightly. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, the words heavy. “I'm so, so sorry I did that to you.” He exhales a shaky breath over Louis’ chin. “I'm sorry, but you still wouldn't have come.”

Louis turns back to him at that, a question in his eyes. Harry gives him a sad smile, knowing and broken at the corners of his lips.

“You wouldn't have left your mum,” he says, like Louis already knows it and he's just confirming it. “You were too good to just up and leave her with your sisters.”

Louis opens his mouth to say something to the contrary, but he realises that maybe Harry's right. He can't be sure now, will never know for sure, but he knows it would have been hard for him to leave. It was hard even when his mum was basically pushing him out the door, shoving a train ticket in his hand and telling him to go live his own life.

“It killed me, you should know that,” Harry says, quieter now. Louis looks into his eyes and sees the sincerity there, swimming in the green. “It wasn't easy to walk away from you and I spent a lot of time afterward, thinking about what might've happened if I didn't.” He shakes his head, dropping his gaze to Louis' shoulder.

He knows he shouldn't feel satisfaction in Harry's regret, in knowing that Harry's been carrying some pain all these years, too, but he does. He feels some of the weight lifting, the constant question of why Louis wasn't good enough. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. But he still thought about Louis after he left, at least some, and that's enough. It wasn't easy to trade him in for the big city, like Louis was afraid it was.

“I missed you,” Louis whispers, not sure if he means the weeks following Harry's departure, or if he means the past nine years. Both, maybe.

Harry smiles, still a hint of guilt and sadness in his eyes, and pulls Louis toward him until they're lying face to face. “I'm glad you picked me up in that taxi last year,” he says, pushing his fingers into Louis' hair, his fingertips rubbing against his scalp. “I'm so glad you showed up today.”

Louis lets his eyelids flutter shut, leaning forward and pressing his lips into the other man's. He's happier than he's been in months, maybe years, and it could all come crashing down any second, but he holds onto it while he has it.

“Can you stay a little longer?” Harry asks between kisses. “I could make us some food and we could talk some more?”

Louis relaxes at the words, glad he's got a little more time to hold onto this feeling. “I'd like that,” he answers softly.

When Harry pulls back to grin, Louis feels like he's looking at his best friend and a stranger at the same time. He's got a lot left to learn about this Harry, but there's so much that he recognises that he can't help but feel a bit like he's home.

He still isn't sure he's ever figured out how not to love Harry. And that realisation doesn't even feel as scary as it should.

* * *

They eat cheese and bacon toasties in bed and Harry makes a mess of his face, which Louis laughs at before crawling into his lap and wiping the melted cheese away with his finger, licking it clean. They talk and they snog in turns, eventually going for a round two, legs wrapped together as they wank each other, breathing into each other's mouths.

Louis smiles more in those few hours than he has over the past few months, honestly; he laughs more, has more fun. And it's intimidating, not knowing if it's leading to anything other than another goodbye, but Louis tries his best not to think about that.

When it's after ten, Louis sighs, knowing he should leave. He wasn't even planning to be here more than a few minutes and he's definitely not prepared to stay overnight. Even though there's nothing waiting for him at home, he doesn't want to overstay his welcome.

So, he insists even when Harry asks him to stay, says he has to get home. He gets dressed and lets Harry walk him to the door, where he leans back against the wall and pulls Louis close.

“So, are you gonna show up at my door out of the blue again?”

Louis smiles, kissing his jaw. “Worked out well for me this time, didn't it?”

Harry chuckles and pulls Louis up to kiss him softly. “Maybe we could actually schedule something next time?” He asks quietly, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “A date, even, maybe?”

Louis can't help but exhale his relief. He'd been trying so hard all night to accept that this might just be a final end to their story, the epilogue tacked onto the end, but the fierceness with which he wants more is surprising to him. He never wants anything the way he wants more time with Harry.

He nods and kisses Harry again before pulling back to look him in the eye. “I'd like that, yeah,” he answers.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and asks Harry to add his number, then texts him to make sure Harry has his number as well. With one last lingering kiss, Louis finally opens Harry's door and steps out into the hallway.

“Oh, wait, one more thing,” he adds in the doorway, turning back to Harry.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, eyebrows lifted.

Louis swallows and exhales, nervous again now that he's thinking of it. “Don't, like, read too much into Liam's album when you hear it,” he says, quirking the corner of his mouth up. “It could be about anyone.”

The curiosity that comes over Harry's expression is amusing enough, but Louis really does hope he isn't freaked out by the words Louis had written. He hopes it doesn't scare him away, but it's done now, it's out there, and Louis can only wait and see.

“That's all,” he says before Harry can say anything, then gives him one last small smile as he closes the door and makes his way down the hallway toward the elevator.

Even with the anxiety of not knowing how Harry will react to hearing their story sung out over a dozen tracks, from the first kiss to the last one, he feels happy. It's not as if he hasn't ever been happy over the past few years, but it still feels a little foreign. He has the answers he was looking for and, even if Louis didn't mean as much to Harry as Harry did to him, even if Harry was able to let him go enough to fall in love with someone else, he knows he wasn't tossed away carelessly. He was important to Harry, at least, and Louis' not going to bother measuring.

When he gets outside, he hails a taxi at the kerb and wonders how such a simple thing could ever change someone's whole fucking life.

* * *

He wakes up the next morning to a series of texts sent after two in the morning and he wipes the sleep out of his eyes as he reads them, noting that they were sent several minutes apart.

_fuck_

_lou.._

_call me when you get these ok?_

_can i see you tomorrow i need to see you_

_call me...._

Louis' heart trips over itself as he reads them over again and again. He decides he definitely can't call before he has some tea, so he sets about making a pot, staring at the bit of counter where Zayn would have been sitting most mornings. He misses his mate, but this, with Harry, it's more than enough of a distraction.

He drinks a cup of tea, then starts in on another before he finally brings up Harry's name on his phone, tapping it and holding the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” Harry answers on the second ring.

“Hi,” Louis says softly, clutching his teacup tightly with his other hand.

“Hi,” Harry says quickly, sounding anxious, then says it again, “hi.”

Louis smiles nervously down at his tea, almost glad he can't see Harry's face right now and, more importantly, that Harry can't see his. “Erm, I got your texts.”

That seems to shock Harry out of his awkward silence, the words whooshing out now, in a hurried breath. “Yeah, I heard it. I heard the album, I downloaded it and I listened through twice,” he rambles, the way he does when he's nervous. “I heard it and can I come over? Er, that's probably rude. But can I? See you?”

Louis breathes in, trying to fill his lungs, and nods before he thinks about the fact that Harry can't see it. “If you want, yeah,” he says, looking around at his drab flat. “My place is a bit of a tip, but if you want, sure.”

“I don't care, Lou,” Harry replies heavily, all breath. “I don't care, I just need to see you.”

He sounds so intense, so emotional, even, maybe. He sounds desperate and Louis reads out his address, listening to Harry scratch it down on paper, and then hangs up after a promise to see him soon.

A half hour later, there's a knock on his door and, when Louis opens it, it's like one of those scenes in a fucking romcom. Harry pushes him back against the wall, kissing him hard, his hands bracing the sides of Louis' neck. He kisses him like he _needs_ it, takes Louis' breath away completely.

Louis shudders into Harry's mouth, pulling him even closer as his chest tightens. It's too much, fucking overwhelming, but he can't stop either. He practically sobs as Harry pulls Louis' bottom lip between his own, letting it go before pressing in again, harder, more needy.

“Harry,” Louis whispers shakily, his whole body trembling with how badly he needs this, needs Harry.

“I'm sorry,” Harry replies, his voice raspy and broken. “I'm so sorry, I'm _sorry_ , Lou. I didn't mean to do that to you, _fuck_ , I'm so sorry.”

Louis is humiliated by the wetness of his eyes as Harry kisses him again, his fingernails dragging over Louis' neck, clinging to him. He lets out a shaky breath as the wetness spills over, tears that carry all of the pain of the last nine years and all of the hope of the present rolling down his cheeks.

“Don't do it again,” he says, pleading.

When Harry finally pulls back, Louis doesn't even try to hide the wet streaks on his face because Harry saw it all when he listened to that album. He already knows.

Harry's eyes are shining wetly, too, though, and that makes Louis feel a bit less exposed.

“I won't,” he says, shaking his head. “I won't, I'm here.”

Louis feels explosions in his chest at the words and, when they kiss again, the fresh tears are pure happiness, pure relief.

Louis hears a melody in his ears and he thinks that this is a song, this exact moment. Harry's hands and his lips, they feel like a fucking symphony against Louis' skin, his pulse like a drum keeping the beat and his breath like lyrics that haven't been written yet.

Louis will write them, though. Someday, he'll write them all.

But for now, he kisses Harry. He has so much lost time to make up for and he's not going to waste a second.

* * *

 

* * *

 “Smells good,” Harry murmurs, stepping up behind Louis and pressing his lips to Louis' neck.

Louis smiles as he checks on the potatoes in the oven before looking at the recipe on his phone again to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything. “Don't distract me,” he says, feeling Harry's lips move slowly over his skin. “I need to focus or you'll all be eating dry, crispy jacket potatoes.”

Harry's chuckles softly, kissing Louis' neck once more, then stepping back. “Could just call them chips,” he offers, just as a knock sounds at the door. “I'll get that, you focus on your potatoes, darling.”

Louis flushes at the pet name, but turns to the food anyway, not wanting to burn anything. He listens as Harry greets Zayn and Niall, still so glad they all get along.

Louis had told Zayn not long after Harry reappeared in his life. He'd told him the whole story, happiness and heartbreak, and Zayn had been wary of Harry at first, but it took no time at all for him to warm to the lad. And it's a relief because Louis believes it when Harry says he's not going anywhere. He actually believes it.

“Louis has requested that he not be bothered while he's working,” Harry says in a mock whisper, just loud enough to ensure that Louis hears it. “He's very focused and can't be distracted.”

“Yeah, because he's a bloody awful cook,” Zayn says, much louder.

Harry laughs at that, the bastard, and agrees. “He was worse in secondary school. Tried to make macaroni and cheese without milk once. Didn't think that was an important ingredient since it's not in the title of the dish.”

Louis can't help but smile, remembering that day. His mum was out of town and Harry came over for dinner with Louis and his sisters. The girls had requested macaroni and cheese and apparently Louis' interpretation wasn't acceptable. Harry had cringed sympathetically, kissing Louis on the cheek, and picked up the phone to order a pizza.

Louis remembers after his sisters were all asleep, he and Harry curled up on the couch and gave each other lazy handjobs under a blanket. It was a very nice evening, all told.

“I always forget how much you know about him,” Zayn says, pulling Louis out of his thoughts. “I forget you know things even I don't know.”

“Sure as fuck hope so,” Niall interjects casually.

“You _all_ know me too bloody well,” Louis finally says over his shoulder. “Now make yourselves useful and set the table, would you?”

Ten minutes later, they're gathered around the dining room table with entirely edible burgers and jacket potatoes on their plates, talking and laughing over each other. Harry's hand slips onto Louis' knee, his thumb tracing the bones through his jeans as he laughs loudly at something Niall has said.

It's as perfect a night as he could imagine, his favourite people around him, all of them having found happiness. Only Liam is missing, but Louis can't be too upset about that, knowing he's off performing across Europe, singing Louis' words in front of thousands of people. He's found his own happiness and, if Louis helped him a little along the way, that only makes it even better.

Zayn and Niall stay late into the night, drinking beer after beer as they all enjoy each other's company, until they finally leave just before midnight, stumbling out the door, Louis having called them a taxi.

When Louis finally slides into his bed next to Harry, he feels like he knows him again, better than anyone. It's only been a couple of months, but he's relearned him, all of the bits he'd missed during those nine years. He knows about Harry's ex-husband, how he'd spotted Harry playing a small gig and picked him up. How Harry had already started feeling lost in the big city and how he gravitated toward the self-assured man in the expensive suit.

How he really did love him, and how quickly that love faded.

Louis smiles as Harry curls up against him, nuzzling into his neck, both of them pleasantly buzzed. “I know it's different for us, how we got here,” he says softly, tracing the slight bumps of Harry's spine with his fingers, “and I know we're probably in different places now. So, it's okay if you don't say anything, okay?”

Harry lifts his head away from Louis' neck, eyes big and practically sparkling in the darkness as he waits.

“But you should know I'm in love with you,” Louis finishes, whispering it like a secret. “Still, maybe. Or again. I'm not sure, but I'm sure that I'm absolutely in love with you now, H.”

Harry stares back, his eyes growing even bigger and a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Lou,” he says, hesitating.

“I know,” Louis says quickly before he can say anything else. “I know, you don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

Harry hesitates for another moment before he leans in, pressing his lips to Louis' softly, holding them there for a few seconds as they kiss slowly. When he pulls back, he brings a hand to the side of Louis' head, his thumb stroking gently over the feathered skin at the corner of his eye.

“I fell in love with you again when you showed up at my door,” he whispers. “I fell again that day, probably that moment.”

Louis feels completely overwhelmed by Harry's words, can't even believe how everything has worked out. It's intimidating knowing that everything he ever really cared about, everything he ever wanted with any kind of passion, he has it all now.

He feels like a teenager, an energy rushing through him, buzzing under his skin. He feels like he's got stars in his eyes and butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Smiling, he glances down at Harry's tattoo.

_Change. Rebirth. A new start._

As he presses a smiling kiss to Harry's lips, that's exactly what it feels like.


End file.
